


i'd run straight into Hell with you

by military_bluebells



Series: History AUs [1]
Category: Generation Kill
Genre: 1917 AU, Action, Alternate Universe - World War I, Angst, Blood and Gore, Choose Your Own Ending, Established Relationship, Happy Ending, M/M, Major character death in chapter 3, Minor Injuries, not in the main tags because you can avoid it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-10
Updated: 2020-07-10
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:47:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 26,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25071154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/military_bluebells/pseuds/military_bluebells
Summary: Mattis straightens and passes Ray a yellow envelope, “Your orders are simple. Deliver this direct order to call off the attack to Colonel Ferrando. They are just outside Croisilles Wood, a mile south east of the town of Ecoust. Be there before dawn, or two battalions, sixteen hundred men, will died for nothing, your brother included.”
Relationships: Brad Colbert/Ray Person, Nate Fick & Ray Person
Series: History AUs [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1815718
Comments: 5
Kudos: 15





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is the longest fic I've ever wrote, yay! It's taken about a month and several re-watches of 1917. 
> 
> Disclaimer: if you haven't watch 1917, this has quite a few spoilers as I follow the plot for quite a bit of it though I do change it up because Brad and Ray aren't like Blake and Schofield.
> 
> Also, you get to choose your own ending! - because I'm a bit of a wimp and couldn't kill one of them off and not offer a happier ending so, 
> 
> Chapter 2: Happy Ending   
> Chapter 3: Angst Ending (Major Character Death)

A light breeze drifts across Brad’s face and he breathes in the smell of grass and wildflowers. The tree he’s leaning against isn’t the most comfortable, but it’s better than a trench, where the mud seeps into his trousers and keeps him damp and cold for days on end. That should be coming to a thankful close with spring on the doorstep. He can hear Ray’s soft breathing beside him, even and shallow, he must be asleep for once. Brad’s glad: Ray hasn’t slept since they started moving position a day ago, even after several miles marching. A temporary peace had settled over them but it's broken by the sound of boots on grass. 

He holds back a sigh, keeping his eyes closed: hopefully, they’re here for some other sod. No such luck however: the sounds stops right by his side. 

“Person.” A voice says. _What do they want with Ray?_ Brad hears a thump – whoever it is disturbing them must have kicked Ray – and the voice, which he now recognises as Gunnery Sergeant Barrett's, calls out, “Person.” 

Brad decides to open his eyes, watching Ray lift his tin hat off his face and rub his eyes before saying, with a pinch of sarcasm, “Sorry Sarge.” 

“Pick a man. Bring your kit.” is all Barrett says before disappearing out of Brad’s line of sight. He shares a look with Ray as Ray responds “Yes Sarge.” and tugs his tin hat down. Ray stands, dusts off his trousers, and holds his hand out with a small smirk. 

Brad rolls his eyes and takes it, letting Ray pull him up to standing. The weight of his pack isn’t distributed right so he heaves it up until it sits right on his shoulders. The pack has to be in the right position or his back act up worse than usual. They grab their rifles from where they’d leant them against the tree trunk and start off after the Gunnery Sergeant. 

The grass beneath their feet is trampled but still a lustrous green, spotted with wildflowers. Ray glances around the other men, but Brad doesn’t. 

“We get anything?” Ray asks. 

“Just mail.” Brad reaches into his pocket and holds out a letter. Ray plucks it from his hand and turns it over before ripping it open. Brad gives him privacy as he unfolds it, looking over at the wash stations, where some of the seasoned men are hanging up socks and shirts, like a half-hearted scrub will wash out any of the blood or mud on them. 

“It’s from me mum,” Ray says. Brad doesn’t correct his grammar anymore, if anything it’s a nice change to the pompous accents of officers. “She says Kettle’s pregnant again, not surprisin’ really, she’s got all the tom cats at her beckon call.” 

“She’s a _cat_ , Ray.” 

Ray grins as they pass the wash stations. It’s a sorry state of affairs that _this_ is what they choose to talk about, Ray’s whore of a cat. 

“You get anything?” 

“Letter from my sister. She’s started working at a munitions factory, says it’s something to take her mind off things.” His brother-in-law is somewhere north of Arras; there’s been talk about a push up there. He doubts the factory will keep her mind off things for long. 

“I’m fucking starving.” Ray moans, like it’s something new. Brad sighs and reaches into a pocket, unfolding the small package. He bites into the bread and rolls it around his mouth to moisten it. He can feel Ray glaring, so he smirks, “That’s cruel, you’re a cruel bastard Colbert.” 

Brad snorts but tears the rest in half, offering Ray the bigger piece. Ray huffs but takes the unleavened bread carefully, taking small bits like Brad showed him. 

“Tastes like old shoes.” 

“You would know.” Brad says, “At least it isn’t your bloody rat stew.” 

Ray scoffs, “You love my rat stew.” Brad grimaces at the sight of Ray talking with his mouth full – not matter how many times he’s seen it before – but they share a grin and begin down the slope into the trenches. It’ll be trench rations for some more time: his leave has been cancelled, so the rumours about another push may be true. He’s almost glad: Ray didn’t have leave and the idiot can hardly be trusted not to get himself killed in Brad’s absence. 

Besides, there’s little to do for fun in Paris on his own. 

They stop briefly to a crossroads as a column of men pass by, before carrying it on. “Those lot were in a hurry; bet you ten bob we’re going up again.” Ray says as they make their way through the narrow, winding trenches. Brad’s height isn’t useful here, where he has to stoop so he doesn’t get his head blown off. Bloody idiots dig them for short arses like Person. 

“You don’t have ten bobs Ray.” 

Barrett is waiting for them around the next corner, so they speed up, Brad taking longer strides and Ray taking more of his short ones. 

“Mattis is the one you’re receiving orders from,” Barrett says as they continue straight ahead, “so you best tidy yourselves up and remember your manners.” _Ray doesn’t possess any manners_ , Brad thinks but doesn’t say, given their present company. 

Brad and Ray share a look after that: General Mattis means important business. They stop outside a crevice that obviously leads to Mattis’s office for the morning. Brad drops his rifle off his shoulder as Ray does up his top button, sealing his mud dusted throat from view. There’s also dirt behind his ear but there’s little they can do about that now. 

Barrett holds the sheet up and Ray goes first. Brad has to practically bend at the waist to follow him. The sudden darkness gives way to dull lamp light when Barrett pulls another sheet to the side. Waiting for them around a table are a bunch of senior officers in immaculate uniforms – Mattis in the centre. Brad is keenly aware that they make an amusing sight as they're examined. Ray always looks even shorter next to him, and he always looks even taller. 

“Corporals Person and Colbert sir.” Barrett says before moving to join the circle around the table. Brad grits his teeth as he salutes: the rank still chafes. 

“Which one of you is Person?” Mattis asks. _Personal then_. 

“Sir?” 

“You have a brother, a Lieutenant in the 2nd Devons, correct.” Brad resists the urge to snap his head to the side: that’s news to him. 

“Yes sir, Nathanial Fick sir.” Ray replies, not asking outright but the question in his voice is clear. 

“I believe he’s still alive, and it’s in our best interest to keep it that way. Now, Patterson tells me you’re good with maps.” 

_Telephone lines, Morse, rifles, trucks, horses,_ Brad lists in his head as Ray replies, “Good enough, sir.” 

“We are here,” Mattis points to the map, “and the 2nd Devons are advancing here. How long will it take you to get there?” 

It’s a stupid question, but Ray says tactfully, “I don’t understand sir, isn’t that land held by the Germans?” Brad is almost proud. 

“The German’s have gone, a strategic withdrawal no doubt. Colonel Ferrando commands the 2nd and sent word yesterday that he plans to attack the retreating German and break their lines, turning the tide of the war in our favour. He is – of course – mistaken.” 

Mattis moves over to another table - giving them a pointed look to follow. It's covered with what looks like aerial photos of the battlefield, “Aerial photos show a second line three miles long, nine miles east of their position and with more defensive than we’ve ever seen. The 2nd is moving to attack the line shortly after dawn tomorrow, will little idea what’s waiting, and furthermore, we cannot warn them because the German’s cut our telephone lines.” 

_It’ll be a slaughter, just like the fucking Somme._

Mattis straightens and passes Ray a yellow envelope, “Your orders are simple. Deliver this direct order to call off the attack to Colonel Ferrando. They are just outside Croisilles Wood, a mile south east of the town of Ecoust. Be there before dawn, or two battalions, sixteen hundred men, will died for nothing, your brother included.” It's twisted for command to use that information - even after they've ordered them - to force their hand, but it has worked because Ray is staring straight ahead at the Colonel with a rare look of steel about him, his mouth pressed tight and his eyes narrowed.

“Yes sir.” He says, his voice unwavering. 

“Over to you, Captain.” 

They salute and turn to Captain Patterson, who offers them a small smile. Patterson is one of the only officers they both respect; for his conduct, his intelligence, and his morals when it comes to his men’s welfare. A Captain has more leeway than a Sergeant. 

“Supplies gentlemen; maps, torch, grenades for any German stragglers and some food. Take the trench west, up Soricel Street, then south west on Paradise Alley to the front. Go down the frontline until you meet the Yorks. Give this to Lieutenant McGraw when you get there, he holds the trenches by the shortest crossing of no man’s land.” He hands Ray a smaller, yellow envelop before leaning in and dropping his voice. “Be careful around McGraw, he’s suffering from a little shell shock and would be on his way home by now, if the leave wasn’t cancelled.” 

Brad nods while Ray tucks the envelope away like the last one. It’s near midday and Brad itches to ask how the fuck they’re going to cross no man’s land in the middle of the day, but if the Germans have pulled back, they must be assuming they haven’t left any soldiers behind.Or not, if they’re arming them with grenades

They retrieve their guns from Barrett and Brad takes point towards the entrance. He pauses however, when Ray asks, “Sir, is it just us?”

“ _Down to Gehenna, or up to the throne, he travels the fastest who travels alone._ ” That’s General Mattis answer, a quote from fucking Rudyard Kipling. 

They nod in bafflement - expected when it comes to Mattis, the upper classes are known to be eccentric - and head up into the daylight. Ray pauses outside of the entrance, stuffing his torch into his webbing. Brad glances up and down the trench, taking stock of the men around them before leaning in and saying, “Brother?” 

Ray’s eyes flick up, they burn as the rest of his face closes, “I’ll explain as we go.” 

It isn't an answer but Brad takes it. He waits for Ray to sort himself out – unbuttoning the top button of his battledress tunic and shifting his rifle – and then he follows him back towards the way they came. At the junction, Ray goes right, and Brad would usually trust him to know the way but when things get personal, people get sloppy which is exactly what they don’t need. 

“Ray.” 

“I know the way.” Ray grouches, speeding up as they walk straight down the long trench. Brad has to lengthen his strides to keep up. 

“I know you do, but we need to think clearly.” 

“Fuck off,” Ray says, spinning around so he’s walking backward. Brad grabs his shoulder and drags him sideways so he doesn’t bump into someone and start a fight. “Just because your lady love up and left you and you lost your head-” 

Brad tugs him into his body as another soldier comes down. The trench is barely wide enough to take two people, so they and the soldier have to go sideways. Brad takes the opportunity to hiss into Ray’s ear, “I want to do this right Ray, for you, for your brother, and the 2nd.” 

Ray huffs, but his face loses some of its tension and he slows down. Brad nods at the change and lets go of Ray’s sleeve. 

“We can’t wait ‘til night.” 

Brad hums, “I know. We have no idea what’s waiting for us and even if the Germans have retreated, they wouldn’t have given us grenades if they thought they were all gone.” 

Ray nods and they have to split because there’s a large group spread across the trench. Ray slips through easily, weaving his way in and out of the group. Brad has to take a longer route, but people must recognise him because they part for him in the end. Ray laughs and Brad rolls his eyes as he hears Ray saying, 

“Iceman, Iceman. You’d think they thought you were the bogeyman the way they jump out your way.” 

Brad shrugs, “I might be.” 

Ray cackles, irritating every soldier in hearing range. Brad grins and they trudge through the winding trenches, mud sloshing around their feet despite the wooden board put down to stop it pooling. They're useless anyway, decayed by weeks of constant damp. He and Ray have been lucky so far, little to no trench foot even in all the time they’ve spent caked in thick, wet mud. Unlucky others, like Chaffin, were sent back home with rotted feet so bad they were black. 

Ray takes them right at another crossroads, “Isn’t McGraw the crazy one?” 

“No, he’s the one that bakes the best pastries.” Brad says sarcastically. He heard about McGraw’s hysteria from Kocher the last time he’d seen him. Shell shock can do that to a man, he's seen it, but from Kocher’s information, he'd had hysteria long before they even reached the battlefield. He doubts they were planning to send him home at all. 

Ray rolls his eyes, “You could just say ‘Yes Ray, you’re right’.” 

“I will never say that to you.” Brad laughs. 

They come against some resistance – Ray took them up a bloody down trench but it’s the fastest way – so they just had to push their way through. Most of the men here don’t know of Brad, so they don’t part, but he’s still imposing without the reputation. Ray on the other hand, barely looks old enough to sign up. 

“Ecoust is about nine miles away so that’ll take six hours at most, especially at your speed.” Ray says over his shoulder. “But, you’re right, we don’t know what’s waiting for us out there, so we’ll have to be clever about it.” Ray swallows suddenly, stopping in the middle of the trench and twist on his heels. 

“One of us will get there, no matter what.” 

“No matter what.” Brad echoes, holding Ray’s gaze until he turns back. They reach the front less than minute later, but Brad doubts finding the Yorks will be easy. That being said, he has Ray, who has always been good at finding people in chaos. 

The men here are grimmer and dirtier than their lot, huddled as close to the trench sides as possible, some of them tucked under the sandbags in small cut-out compartments. It won’t do anything for the mud, but it offers some protection against shelling. Not a lot however, it's more likely to get hit by pieces of trench material and shrapnel than the actual shells half the time. Ray nods to a collapsed section of trench ahead of them, where the wood has been blown to splinters and dirt has fallen into the trenches. The position has definitely come under artillery in the past few days. 

They have to crouch as they move past the collapsed section. He can hear Ray laughing in front of him as he shuffles, curling as low as he can. He makes sure to punch Ray in the shoulder when they get past the section. 

“Plain undignified.” Ray teases even as he rubs his shoulder. 

They pass under a few wooden bridges that extend over the trenches and Ray gets a few directions to the Yorks. Brad can pick McGraw out easilly as they near the Yorks entrenchment, the man with shaky hands who’s waving them around like a madman in front Kocher and Redman. Kocher meets his eyes over McGraw’s shoulder and raises an eyebrow. 

“The Huns could start shelling any moment, we need-” 

“Sir.” Ray says deferentially and Brad holds back a smirk. 

McGraw jumps like a startled horse, “What, what do you want, are you our relief, it’s about damn time, our men are dying here-”

“No, sir, I’m ‘fraid not.” Ray interrupts, sounding apologetic. Brad almost snorts because he looks like butter wouldn't melt in his mouth, “We have orders from General Mattis sir, he sent a letter.” Ray holds the envelope out patiently as McGraw stutters, before snatching the paper out of Ray’s hand and ripping it open. McGraw’s face easily shows his feelings and he starts to stutter all over again. 

“That can’t be right, they’re out of their minds, the Huns are right over there, they’re practically on top of us!” 

“Sir,” Brad hedges because McGraw seems like the type to start and never stop, “we have our orders.” 

McGraw already wide eyes go even wider and Kocher buries his face into his mud-covered palm. “But you’ll be killed the minute you step over the line, they can’t mean…” Brad turns his attention to where Ray is visible grinding his teeth. With how he was earlier, Brad can’t guarantee that Ray wouldn’t deck the Lieutenant. Kocher seems to know this too before he takes a deep breath and interrupts. 

“Sir, I think the men at the south end needed you to…” 

McGraw’s head snaps to Kocher and his brow furrows before smoothing out, “Oh yes, yes they need the- yes, sent these men on their way,” Brad had hoped that would be end of it, but McGraw grabs them both by the shoulder and cries, “God speed to you!” before rushing off. 

Ray waits longer than Brad expected he would until he cracks and starts laughing his arse off, “Fucking hell, was he crying?!” Brad smirks and Kocher chuckles, a little hoarsely. 

“Probably. So, what are your orders?” 

“Deliver a message to the 2nd Devons. We need to cross here.” Brad says. He assumes the orders weren't confidential. 

Kocher nods slowly, “Well, it was nice to see you before you die.” Ray’s just about stopped laughing now and Kocher slaps him on the shoulder. “Come with me, I’ll take you to the best crossing point.” 

They pass several more Yorks, none that Brad recognises. “There are two lines of wire, ours is a mess but there’s a gap behind the dead horses – you should be able to find them by the smell – and once you’ve got through there, find the bowing guy: there’s a gap next to him and then you’ve got one-hundred and fifty yards to the Boche line.” Kocher cracks a grin over his shoulder, “You know the rest, watch the craters etc. You got a flare?” 

“No, they gave us a couple of grenades, a tin of meat, some bread and two torches.” Brad says dryly. 

Kocher shakes his head, “Officers. At least it was Patterson right, otherwise it would’ve been one grenade and no torches.” He turns to Redman, “Get them a flare, will you?” 

They come to a set of ladders leading up the top of the bags and Kocher pauses, giving them Brad a grave look as Ray turns away to take the flare from Redman. “Be careful, your lot will need you, Brad, if they’re going to survive the rest of this war.” 

Brad grits his teeth and replies, “They’ll need both of us. No one can fix a communications wire like Ray.” Kocher nods slowly and claps him on the shoulder, before stepping back into the crowd that has formed around them, the men looking on with wide eyes or dull resignation. Brad doesn’t spare Kocher a glance as he starts to load his rifle and fix his bayonet. Why can't good, competent men like Kocher see what Ray brings to the battlefield? But, perhaps it’s in his best interest that they don’t, because officers wouldn’t hesitate to swipe him for their own uses if they knew. 

“I won’t tell you god speed: I know how you feel about that.” Kocher says, with a small, sad smile. The fucker has already decided they’re going to die then. It’s insulting really. 

“Ready Person?” Brad asks as they stand side by side in front of the ladders. 

Ray grins at him, waving his hand to the ladder, “Age before beauty, homes.” 

Brad rolls his eyes at the term; Lord only knows how or why Ray comes up with his own slang. It keeps him occupied at least and it's only slightly less irritating than his off-pitch singing. 

The wood under Brad’s hand is sodden and caked in mud, soft and weak against his palm. He steps up one rung and sits his rifle in the mud, keeping his head as close to the ground as possible, which takes an unnatural bend of his spine to complete. Ray rises next to him, taking two steps up before he has to dunk his head down. When no machines guns take their heads off, they slither forward into the cold mud and start to crawl into No Man's Land. Their legs bump against each other as they move over the trench ridge towards the edge of flooded shell crater. 

Ray pauses and raises an eyebrow. Brad tips his head up and they rise into a crouch, keeping their eyes forward to where the enemy should be. The stench of the dead horses is strong, even from here, as is the smell of rotting flesh. Ray steps around the shell cater and towards the first of the two horses in front of them. Brad doesn’t give it a second glance but makes sure to push Ray along: he has a soft spot for the beasts. _Why, I don’t know_. 

The gap in the thick section of barbed wire is just wide enough for Brad’s shoulders to fit. Ray shuffles in front of him and they wait for a second. If there are any Germans, they’re easy targets, but no shots come so Ray carries on, keeping tight to the ground much easier than Brad. They come out into a short open section and are faced with another, thinned section of wire. 

The bowing man turns out to be a half-rotted body laying over the barbed wire. The gap is too small – even for Ray – so Brad grabs a pole next to the gap and pulls it down, widening it for Ray to slip through. He must step on a piece of loose ground because the pole jerks in Brad’s hand, dislodging his grip and dragging a stray piece of wire across his palm. Brad snaps his teeth together as the wire slices and sticks into his hand. Luckily, only one barb gets stuck and it’s easy enough to remove, if a little painful. 

Ray whips around anyway, even though Brad knows he didn’t make a sound. “You alright?” he whispers, his eyes flicking down to Brad’s hand, which he’s curled closed reflectively. 

Brad nods stiffly and waves him off. _We in the middle of No Man’s Land Ray_. Thankfully, Ray turns around – though not without glaring at him first – and they push on through the narrow corridor. The land ahead is barren; only tree stumps remain, surrounded by churned mud and shell craters. Brad moves to the left and points out a sub-trench to Ray, moving to take the lead. 

He slides down into it and grimaces at the rat-infested body he finds at the bottom. While Ray slides down beside him, he takes a second to uncurl his hand and examine the blooded mess that is his palm. Blood seeps out, pooling in the creases of his hand and obscuring the wound itself. _At least it isn’t my right hand_. When Ray turns to him, they share a grimace and start to move again. The sub-trench extends a short way into another shallow pit. They press against its sides, peering over the top. Ray jumps beside him and Brad smirks. Ray shoves him and Brad catches sight of what made Ray jump; a skull is embedded – assumingly with the rest of its body – in the side of the pit, right where Ray'd put his hand. _Germans_. 

They push forward until the sound of biplanes fills the silence around them. Brad drags Ray into the small pit in front of them, straight into a pool of mudded water, that immediately starts to seep into his cotton trousers. He ignores it and wraps his arm over Ray's shoulder to force his head down. The biplanes pass overhead – two, theirs – and Ray shoves at his knees, 

“You had to pick the one with water in it, didn’t you? I swear if my cock rots off, you’re explaining to those poor French prostitutes why I can’t give them the night of their lives.” 

“The worst night of their lives perhaps. I’m sure they’ll take the news gladly.” Brad quips back as he pushes himself out of the crater. 

“Fuck you.” Ray laughs as Brad pulls Ray out too. 

In front of them now is the wreck of a tank, tipped high in the air. They're interesting contraptions, much more useful on the battlefield than bloody horses. Behind the tank are two craters, the deepest they’ve seen so far - easily six foot deep - separated by a thin strip of dirt. Ray goes first, slipping a little in the mud. Brad reaches out to grab him should he fall but he stays on his feet. They pass through with little trouble and come across a group of rotting bodies, piled in a half-dug hole. There’s isn’t anything to say. 

The pit directly in front of them is at least ten-foot-deep and made impassable around the sides by thick barbed wire, so they’ll have to go into it, even though there's more wire spanning across it. 

“I can see a gap.” Ray says, pointing to a section at the bottom by the water's edge. 

Brad nods and follows Ray over the ridge. The ground is less mud and more soil here but still uneven under foot and the crater is flooded, with no telling just how deep it is. If Ray falls in, he’ll be dragged under by the weight of his pack and get tangled the bodies and other things floating or hidden under the surface. Brad keeps his arm out as he follows Ray’s steps carefully over a sunken section of wire. They move around the water’s edge, passing a body laying half in and half out of the water. The way up to the other side is too steep for them to climb with feet alone. Brad stands to the side, letting Ray scramble up like squirrel up a tree. Brad goes slower, using his rifle as hiking stick. He gets stuck however, his left boot sucked into a small well of wet mud. 

“Ray.” 

Ray turns – almost at the top of the crater - and slides back down far enough to reach his hand out. Brad grasps it and pulls himself out. 

“Have you been sneaking extra biscuits?” Ray teases as they lay in the mud to check that German haven’t crawl out of holes. 

“Not all of us can be blown over by a gush of wind.” 

The front line is easy to spot – a raised lips extending both left and right, lined with thin barriers of barbed wire coils. They rise onto their feet and stork towards it. It’s about now Brad expects to be ambushed and cut to pieces, but the line is deathly silent: no clang of ammunition against guns, no swishes of clothes or creaks of wooden boards. They share a glance and run up the raised lip through a gap in the wire to point their guns down into the deep trench. 

It’s deserted. 

Ray looks to him and Brad nods. _You go, I’ll cover_. Ray slips down on some flatten sandbags, onto a raised platform and then jumps down onto the main trench floor. Brad follows as Ray clears the two directions of trench connect to this observatory post. 

“Fuck me, command was actually right.” Ray says, when the coast is definitely clear. 

Brad smirks, “Even a broken clock is right twice a day.” Ray laughs softly, shaking his head. Brad takes the opportunity to check his palm and pull out his canteen, cleaning the wound as best he can before it turns septic. At least he managed not to press it into the mud, that has Lord knows what in it. Ray grimaces in sympathy opposite him, and pulls out a roll of gauze from his pocket, kneeling in front of him to wrap his hand. 

“Don’t worry Brad, you’ll be wanking off in no time.” 

“Wrong fucking hand.” Brad says, before dropping his voice, even though the only people who might appear wouldn’t understand them, “and why would I wank myself off when you can do it for me?” 

Ray grins up at him, enough to bring out his dimples beneath the layer of grime on his face. Brad grins back but it falters when Ray tightens the bandage, prickles of pain shooting down to his fingertips and up to his wrist from his palm 

“You’re an idiot.” Ray says under his breath. He finishes, tucking the gauze into the band of Brad's watch. The bright white of the gauze is jarring and easily visible, but there’s little they can do about it. 

They carry on parallel to the front line, turning around a corner with their rifles draw. A metal bucket full of coals sits in the middle of a T junction so Ray crouches to hold his hand over it. 

“Still hot, they're not long gone.” 

They take the turn, moving deeper into the enemy trenches. Infuriatingly well-built trenches, that are practically mud free, reinforced with strong-looking wood and lots of sandbags, and generous in depth, saving Brad from stooping over. They advance straight until they hit another junction, stepping out together to clear both directions. Once he’s sure there are no Germans about to ambush them, he feels Ray tap his shoulder and advance ahead of him. Brad should take point, but Ray is already moving down the trench, so he leaves it. They go around a bend until they’re cut off by another dead end, collapsed into the trench. The German trenches are better quality but not any more functional than their own. _Nice to know we’re not at too much of a disadvantage_. 

“We can go over the top.” Brad says, moving towards the mound of dirt. 

“Or we could try a short cut.” Ray replies behind him. Brad turns and sees Ray pointing his rifle to a darkened doorway. 

“and get ambushed by the Germans that we just established haven’t been gone long.” Brad finishes. It would be helpful to be able to read the sign next to the doorway, but he hasn’t been able to pick up any German, especially the written kind. 

Ray’s face pulls tight, “What are the Boche going to expect, us to climb over the top, or to follow them into their own tunnel?” Ray’s logic is flawed but Brad relents because he can tell that every second they’re not moving is playing on Ray’s mind and he can be as stubborn as a mule when he wants to be. 

“If we get lost, ambushed or spring a booty trap, it’s on you.” 

The darkness of the tunnel swallows Ray up so he moves quickly to follow. _Better not lose him in the first minute_. He pulls out his torch from his trouser pocket and flicks it on just as Ray’s lights up the tunnel. Again, meticulously built. There are stairs and Brad grimaces at the harsh sound their boots make against the wood: if there are German hidden in the darkness, they’ll hear them very quickly. 

“Fucking hell.” Ray mutters and Brad can see why. The German have built a proper bunkroom, rows of metal bunk beds – with mattresses – spread out with clear walkways between them. Even the walls are look strong, made from what looks like chalk. It explains the lack of crevices in the trenches topside because the men just sleep here. “This is like a hotel.” Brad can’t disagree, he doubts the men that slept woke to find themselves knee deep in mud. A partition of wood separates the main floor from a small room, with two doorways and two more beds, most likely for officers. 

“Hey, check this out.” Ray says, sitting on one of the beds that hasn’t been stripped from its mattress. It squeaks gratingly when Ray bounces on it, but it does remind him of Paris leave, back before the Somme. Ray must have the same thought because he grins like he did then, wide and cheeky. 

A rat appears from the ceiling, crawling down on one of the bags suspends from a beam. Brad’s spirit lifts at little at the sight. _Still couldn’t get rid of the rats, could you?_. 

Ray grins again, “Rat traps, nice.” 

The rat climbs back up the ceiling, running along a rusty steel beam towards a corner they haven’t checked. Brad swings his torch around and follows the rat into the corner that holds crates with tins in them. Brad picks up one. _Dogmeat_. He’s glad he checked because when he puts the tin down, he spots the tripwire. 

“Tripwire. Here to the door.” Brad says calmly. It's not their first tripwire but it’s hard to predict just what it will do, or how much tension it can take. Ray stills on the bed and doesn’t move to help him. _Good, he’s leant since last time_. 

“Plan?” 

“Not to trip it.” 

Ray snorts, “A fat loada helpful that.” 

Brad rolls his eyes and shrugs, moving one foot back to ease himself out of the corner. But, as with all things in this bloody war, nothing goes to plan because as he steps back, the fucking rat drops from one of the hanging bags, taking the bag with it and dragging it right into the tripwire. 

Time slows as he sees Ray jump forward in his peripheral, the stupid bastard, “Fuck. No!” 

A loud bang follows, and Brad closes his eyes as he’s thrown to the floor. Chalk dust immediately fills his nose and mouth and he chokes on it. He knows he's trapped, can feel weight baring down on all of him. _Ray, where’s Ray?_ he thinks, trying to move his arms and legs – by some miracle he has them still – but they’re pinned. His ears ring, but he thinks he can hear a muffled shout. _For fuck’s sake Ray, run, the whole thing will come down if it hasn’t already_. Something lifts some weight off his foot, and he curses in his head, _Idiot you need to run_. 

“Brad!” Light shines against his closed lids and Brad tries to open his eye, but they’re stuck shut. Something grabs his tunic and he can hear and feel the distant rumbling of a collapsing tunnels. 

“Brad!” Ray shouts in his ear. It doesn’t sound as loud as usual, “Brad, stand up, fuck why do you have to be so fucking heavy?” 

Brad tries to move his limbs as Ray yanks at his tunic, but they feel weak and he can’t coordination them. He coughs, the taste of chalk drier on his tongue than unleavened bread, and he still can’t see. 

“Stand up!” Ray shouts and Brad wants to snap, _I’m trying_ , but that would be a waste of time. Ray lifts him up off the ground by an inch, but Brad’s too heavy like this, a dead weight, and Ray isn’t at his strongest. Brad doesn’t know where the ground is, so he stumbles into Ray when he does find his feet in the darkness. 

“Don’t you fucking let go of me!” Ray yells, grabbing Brad’s hand and bring it to his shoulder. Brad grips what must be a pack strap and tries not to stumble as he’s dragged along. His sense of direction is out the window, but Ray knows where to go so Brad focuses on not falling and taking Ray with him. In the back of his mind, as Ray drags along in the darkness of his own sealed eyes, he hopes Ray's brand of lucky hasn’t worn out. Ray pauses long enough for Brad to notice before he’s dragging Brad in a different direction. 

“Come on!” 

“I can’t fucking see Ray.” Brad points out when Ray suddenly stops, slapping a hand against Brad’s chest. 

“Stop! There’s a mine shaft, we’ll have to jump.” Brad hears the scuff of Ray’s boot as he jumps and he's in the air for less than a second so the gap isn’t wide. “Come on, I need you to jump.” 

“I know that.” Brad spits. A chill goes down his spine, because he doesn’t know where the gap is, can’t judge the jump enough not to slam into Ray or go too short and drag Ray down the shaft with him because he knows Ray would try to pull him up. 

“Fucking jump then!” 

The rumbling is right behind him – he feels a puff of dust on the back of his knees – so he takes the leap. His feet don’t hit the ground correctly, but Ray’s hand catches his shoulder, pulling him up right and tugging him forward. “Come on Brad.” Ray urges, his disembodied voice right in front of him, his hand still tugging at his pack strap. “I can see daylight come on.” Brad can’t but when they stumble across a threshold, he can feel the change in air, fresh without the thickness of chalk dust. Ray’s hand disappears from his shoulder and reappears to take his hand, pulling him up some sort of mound until Brad can feel the sun on his face.

“Sit down Brad, before you hurt yourself.” 

Brad snorts and sits as neatly as he can blind. Another chill goes down his spine: if he’s blind, Ray’s going to have to leave him, or he won’t deliver the message to his… brother in time. 

He picks up the sound of a canteen opening and then Ray says, “Hold still, don’t open your eyes.” Water rushes over his face and a careful hand wipes it across his eyes and nose, a piece of fabric rubbing at the side of his eyes. Ray’s sleeve. He pushes the hand away when Ray tips the water over him again and uses his own, wiping at his eyes carefully. He tries to open them again once he's mopped up most of the water and succeeds. He blinks some of the residual water out of his eyes and rubs at them until he can take in the slight rise in Ray's furrowed brows and the look in his brown irises, nothing like the mud that surrounds them in the trenches. 

“Not blind then?” Ray says, the side of his mouth picking up. 

“I wish I was, then I wouldn’t have to look at your face.” 

Ray pouts, “Hey, you said the shrapnel only slightly disfigured me.” He means it as a joke, but his eyes undermine it. 

Brad rolls his eyes but grabs Ray by the jaw, his hand cupping all of it easily, “You were slightly disfigured before the shelling, if anything the shrapnel made you look a little better.” 

Ray laughs and his eyes go lighter again. He stands and pulls the flare gun out of his side bag and loads it. Brad can’t help but look at the scarring on Ray’s face, however. The shrapnel had struck his left side, missing his eye and from a far enough distance not to go straight through his tin hat. Its left its marks, small holes and cuts that have scarred a light purple now, months after, on his cheek, up the side of his nose and eye. The other scars on his shoulder and arm aren’t visible until he rolls up his shirt sleeves or loses his shirt entirely. 

It’s more the memories it brings back that bother Brad than scarring itself. 

“Up your arse Kocher.” Ray says as he fires the flare. It arcs high in the blue sky and burst with a bright light just a step down from the sun. 

“I doubt his missus would allow that.” Brad says dryly. He wishes he could see the looks on Kocher’s, Redman’s and even McGraw’s faces. 

“Doubt _you_ would, you mean.” Ray replies with a cheeky grin, putting the flare gun back. Brad hums and takes Ray’s offered hand to stand back up. His tin hat is an awkward angle, so he rights it, taking the sun’s glare off his smarting eyes. 

“Where now?” 

Ray pulls his compass, “Ecoust is directly south-east, so that way.” Ray points and Brad notices for the first time what’s in front of them. Artillery, about seven blown guns and piles of shell cases the size of Ray’s arm surrounding them. _They’ve destroyed their own guns and trenches_. 

A path is clearly marked so they take it, keeping their eyes peeled for more traps. Clearly, the Germans have planned this. 

“Did you hear how this all started?” Ray begins. Brad sighs: it'd been nice to only heard Ray’s voice when it was needed but completely out of character as well. It seems he's calmed down enough to ramble. “Some Serb shoots Archduke Ferdinand of Austro-Hungry – really shitty name for a country, it’s like us calling ourselves Anglo-Angry or some shit – in Bosnia which obviously pissed them off, and they were going to invade Serbia for it, but if they did that Russia would be pissed at them, so they recruit some back up from the Boche, who’d have to fight French if they fought Russia because they wouldn’t want to leave their back open, which meant fucking Belgium was in a shit spot so we had to help them.” 

Brad raises an eyebrow as they weave through a small crop of chard trees, “You’ve been thinking about this a lot?” 

“Not much else to do after you wank one out, but I think there’s another reason for it all.” 

Brad sighs, “Do you have to tell me?” 

“Yes, because like you said, I’ve been thinking about this a lot, not as much as say you in your shirt sleeves but more than whatever Schwetje and Griego are doing in their fancy dug out. See I think the Kaiser set this all up so that he could grab more land and Belgium because Patrick told me Belgium makes some of the best chocolate in Europe-” 

“Are you implying at that this war started because the Kaiser has a sweet tooth?” 

“Hey, it makes a lot of sense.” Ray protests. Brad takes a deep breath and doesn’t comment as they step out into a wide field that’s a luscious green, spreading as far as the eye can see. The bright colour almost hurts after all the browns and blacks of the trenches. High in the sky, there are two biplanes, most likely the ones from earlier. _What have they seen out there?_

“Are we going to talk about this brother of yours?” Brad asks as they start walking through the short grass. Ray stays silence. Brad risks a glance, but Ray’s face is turned away. “Lieutenant Fick?” 

Ray stays quiet for all of a minute, then sighs and adjusts his rifle, “He’s Fick because he’s from me ma’s first husband. He died in the pits when Nate was about eighteen months. Ma didn’t change it because she loved his dad, more than she ever loved mine at least.” 

Brad nods, brushing his shoulder against Ray’s. He meets Brad’s eyes for a second before looking to the ground. “Look, I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want to think about him, where he was, what might have happened to him and well, he’s an officer, how would that look for me? Either men would hate me for it, especially with how our officers have been, or they’d expect me to be higher than a corporal.” Ray glances across pointedly. 

“You do a better job than most corporals.” Brad says, because there isn’t anything else. Ray glances at him and a soft smile graces his features. 

“I suppose, but I’ll never be Nate.” Brad raises an eyebrow, but Ray just shakes his head, rubbing at his eyes. 

They come up towards a broken stone wall, where trees lay prone on the ground behind it. Further away on the opposite hill looks to be a farmhouse and a small barn. _We’ll have to clear it_. They walk in silence to the archway of the wall and through into the fallen trees. 

“Cherry trees.” Ray says, his tone returning to normal. He cups a bundle of white blossoms and examines them, “Look like Lamberts though they could be Dukes, hard to tell without seeing the fruit.” Brad raises an eyebrow and Ray shrugs, “There’s an orchard outside the schoolhouse, owned by the Head Mistress. Me and Nate used to help her with the harvest.” 

“Like good little boys.” Brad smirks. 

Ray rolls his eyes, “Nate maybe, but not me. I used to climb the apple trees and swing from the branches.” 

“Of course, you did.” 

They move through the small orchard and white peels stick to his boots like snow. A wind blows through the trees and sends blossom through the air, which cling to Ray’s clothes and the side of his face. It almost looks pretty. 

They pause by the end wall and peer across to the farmhouse. It looks deserted, but they rarely are. A small creek separates them from it so there’s little chance they can advance on it without being seen from the windows. Ray looks to him, so Brad nods and steps out from behind the wall. 

They edge closer, enough that Brad can see a tree blocking the road, _ambush site_ , and the windows unshuttered but covered with thin curtains. Brad nods to the right and Ray nods in return, moving to the left. Up close, the windows are shattered, and the front door is wide open. Brad stalks up the steps and clears his left flank first before turning to his right and advancing around what should be a drawing room. The inside of the farmhouse is barren; the walls have large holes in them, showing the wood behind the paint and glass covers the floor. He sees Ray enter what must be the kitchen from a side door, glass crunching under his boots. That too has been ripped of it innards. 

“Haven’t tripped a wire yet?” 

“It was the fucking rat, Ray.” Brad grits out. 

Ray laughs, “Sure it was,” he taps the side of his nose, “secrets safe with me homes.” 

They move out to sweep the courtyard and the half barn. The place is obviously deserted, but something feels off. Brad moves over to the secondary door of the half barn and stares out at the lone cow in the field, the others laying prone on the floor. 

“Hey, Brad, look at this.” 

Brad turns to see Ray kneeling next to a bucket full of something white. “Milk?” 

“Looks like it, must be from this morning, but why would they leave it out in the open?” 

“They had to move suddenly and very quickly.” Brad kneels next to the bucket and fills his empty canteen carefully, taking a sip. He passes the canteen to Ray, who moans as he takes a gulp. 

“Shit, I never thought milk could taste this good.” The corner of Brad’s lip quirks up and he reaches across the wipe the corner of Ray’s mouth where milk has stayed put. Ray’s eyes darkened and Brad knows that if his hands weren’t covered in mud, he’d take Brad’s thumb into his mouth. Brad flushes a little at the thought. He pulls back slowly and holds Ray’s gaze until he looks away, reaching into his inside pocket and pulling out the map. He unfolds it over his bent knee and proclaims, “Get over that ridge and it’s a straight shot to Ecoust.” 

Brad nods, “Good.” 

It’s then they hear it, the drone of a biplane somewhere overhead. Brad picks it out of the sky through the open side of the barn, flying lower over the fields than before. He follows it between the slabs of wood until he sees two other biplanes through the main barn door. The machines guns start not long after. The ground next to him crunches and Brad draws his eyes away to watch Ray steps towards the barn door like he’s in a trance. Brad follows him and leans on the side of the barn door as Ray wanders outside to get a closer look. 

“Our friends from before?” Ray asks. 

“Most likely.” Brad returns. It’s a two on one dogfight – the single German biplane stands little chance being chased by two of theirs– and they're lower than Brad's comfortable with but far enough away that he doesn’t feel the need to drag Ray back into the barn by the scuff of his neck. 

The German plane turns towards them, a mistake because it gets hit the next second with a loud bang, smoke billowing out of its tails. It curves down sharply to the left as the other planes sail high above them. Brad keeps his eyes on the plane, because like before something feels off. It rights itself, turning towards them but disappearing from view. The next second it reappears, travelling straight towards them. 

“Ray!” Brad shouts. 

Ray steps backwards - too slow - before turning and running back towards him, the plane right behind him. Too slow. Brad moves the next second, grabbing Ray by his tunic when he gets close enough and dragging him along as quickly as he can. He pushes Ray in front of him as they hit the ground, just outside of the half-barn. 

Darkness doesn’t envelope him and he isn't overcome by pain, so he turns onto his back and stares at the flaming wreck less than two foot away from them. 

“Fucking hell!” Ray says beside him. 

The sound of crackling fire is joined by a male voice screaming. Brad doesn’t hesitate, picking up his rifle and firing two shots into the wreck. The screaming immediately stops. He drops his rifle across his legs and stares straight ahead. The biplane is quickly consumed by flames, which spread upwards, licking at the wooden roof of the half barn. 

“Well, no more milk for us then.” Ray says after a minute. His hands are shaking against the ground, little twitches, and his eyes are a little wider than usual, but Brad doesn’t mention it, focusing instead on getting up and out of the way of the glowing embers that are beginning to float towards them. He offers his hand and Ray clasps it, using it to drag himself up. They don’t speak as they walk to the road and start up the ridge. 

“I don’t hate him.” 

Brad turns to look at Ray, whose eyes are focused on the ground by his boots. Ray glances up, “Nate, I mean. I used to, because he was a perfect little angel, could never do anything wrong. I, on the other hand, could never to anything right, too loud, always in the way.” Brad holds his gaze as Ray’s slips the ground again, like something heavy weighs on his shoulders. He waits, until it’s clear that Ray lost in his own head, 

“But you don’t hate him now.” 

Ray snorts, “No. Nate was one of the only people who took me seriously as kid. Always calling me his brother, always including me, playing with me. Made me feel guilty for being jealous and hating him.” 

“How much older is he?” 

“Three years. Looks nothing like me, golden hair and clear green eyes, taller and more handsome too, just to rub it in.” Brad nods, as they pass a fallen tree that has been dragged across the dirt road. 

“And an officer.” 

“Yeah. A good one I imagine, because it’s Nate fucking Fick.” 

Brad nods before pausing in the road, tilting his head to the side. The faint sound of trucks reaches his ears and he grabs Ray’s arm, dragging him onto the side of the road. Soon a motor car appears over the ridge. Brad’s rifle is his hand before he realises that the motor car is theirs and is part of a convoy. They salute as it rounds the tree and passes them. The next three trucks pass with ease, but the last gets stuck in the mud of the well trafficked land. 

They share a glance and walk over to it. Even from several feet away, it’s clear that the truck won’t be moving without assistance because its back wheels spin uselessly, unable to gain traction in the increasingly liquid mud. Ray wanders around the back of the truck and Brad gives him time for his mind to work before asking, “Well?” 

“We’ll have to get everyone off, the weight's making it sink further and that bloody driver needs to stop revving the engine before he makes this any worse.” 

Brad nods, “Replace the driver.” He turns his attention to the men in the back of the truck who are beginning to move but only to stand up. “Out.” 

The men glance at each other and one pipes up, in a thick Cockney accent, “What’s make ya think we gotta listen to ya?” 

Brad just grits his teeth – mostly due to that god-awful accent – and raises an eyebrow. 

“Oh, give over Gonorrhoea,” another says, slipping out the truck. The others follow suit, including ‘Gonorrhoea’ until every last one is out. Brad ignores Ray's singsong of “Iceman, Iceman,” from where he hangs out of the driver side door. 

“Shut up, Ray.” Brad calls back, “What do you need?” 

“If you’ve got some wood stick it in front of the tyres.” 

Brad turns to the men from the truck and one steps forward, a sergeant by his chevrons, shorter than him, everyone is, but broader, who says in a soft country accent, “We’ve got wood.” Brad steps back and lets the man grab two slabs of wood from the truck, “Luz, Perconte, put these under that tyre.” 

Luz and Perconte, two much shorter men, follow the orders and put the wood in front of the tyres. Brad gestures his hand in the view of the driver side window and Ray revs the engine, gentler and longer than the driver had. The wheels spin and grip the wood a little but Brad can see it isn’t going to be enough so he steps up to the back of the truck and pushes forwards and up on the tailgate as best he can. The sergeant comes beside him as does another man with black hair and a square jaw. They push together and some idiot shouts, “Put your back into it, Mr Toye!” in what must be an impression because others laugh while Toye shouts back, “Fuck off Luz.” 

Ray revs the engine a little harder and the truck slides sideways but gains traction on the wood, moving forward out of the hole. The gallery cheer and Brad grins at Ray as he slides out of the driver’s door and pats the man on the back, leaving a smear of mud behind. 

“Good driving Person, it’s nice to see that your childhood in the countryside wasn’t just spent fucking the local farmers cattle.” 

Ray snorts and puts on a thick accent, “Oh I, I’m a proper country boy me.” 

“Hey, that’s not half bad.” Luz – at least Brad thinks that’s what he’s called – says as he lines up to climb back into truck. 

“You can thank all the time I’ve had with young Hasser, he’s a really country boy that one, proper thick Cornish accent and all.” 

Brad is just about to cuff the back of Ray’s head when a Captain comes around the corner, his peaked cap barely concealing the bright ginger of his hair. “Gentlemen,” he says, tipping his hat, “you seem a long way from the front.” 

Ray’s eyes flick to Brad before he responds, “Yes, sir, special orders, sir, from General Mattis to Colonel Ferrando.” 

“Ah, well where are you headed?” 

“Ecoust sir.” 

The Captain nods, “Well, we’re heading through Ecoust and I’m sure there’s some space for the two of you. Lipton?” His eyes stray to the sergeant, who responds with a soft ‘Yessir.’ The Captain nods and looks back to them, appraising them with his eyes, “Very good.” He nods to them and disappears around the side of the truck. 

Lipton offers a hand and Brad grasps it, ducking under the canvas roof and sitting down on the left bench beside Lipton. He offers his uninjured hand out and Ray takes it, his usually rough palms smoothed by the layer of mud on them. Brad had decided early in their relationship that Ray was allergic to soap in any form: even after he’d been scrubbed raw in a tub in the outfield hospital, Brad had still found dried mud behind his ears and in the crease of his knees. It’s hard to picture him without the layer of dirt. 

“Anyone got a smoke?” A pale, skinny soldier asks in a rough city accent. London, most likely. Another soldier hands him one and he lights it before glaring at the man sat on the floor of the truck behind Ray. “Christ, Web can’t you shut your cake hole for one minute?” 

“Here we go.” The man on Brad’s right-side mutters as Web’s brows furrow and he snaps back a crisp, upper class accented, “What do you want Joe?” 

“For you to stop looking like a mug.” 

The noise in the truck picks up so Brad sits back and lets it flow over him. Ray on the other hand, is grinning, obviously pitching into the fight, even though he doesn’t know these people. Brad lets him stir the pot, closing his eyes for the first time since his nap this morning. He’d never been one to nap, even as a child, but since the war, it’s become a strategic move. If his eyes are closed, whether or not he’s actually asleep, most lance corporals and corporals don’t bother him with their pointless business. _Not that they should turn to me anymore_ , he reflects more bitterly than usual. 

“Yeah, Colbert over there was demoted for saving our entire team, what bullshit is that?” 

“Ray, why are you airing my dirty laundry, when you have more than enough of your own?” Brad cuts in, keeping his eyes closed. 

“Because it’s more fun and people need to know about this shit. Just because you’re happy to be shafted by command, doesn’t mean I have to be.” 

Brad would comment, but he’s aware that this isn’t the place to discuss the issue again. Ray knows he wasn’t happy with the decision, but it wasn’t that he didn’t expect it. Disobeying orders isn’t something he would have considered before this war, but when the orders are pointless, unnecessary and threaten his men, _Ray_ , for no reason other than to fulfil Schwetje’s entitlement, Brad had no choice. Ray should also know that they can’t make a stand about it either, not when Schwetje outranks them both in the chain of command and in society as the son of a Lord. 

“Your Captain sounds like our old one, Sobel. He was an idiot: he once got us lost for a whole day in these mud fields, we nearly lost Popeye in this shell crater full of liquid mud, it sucked him down to his waist before we got him out.” There’s laughter and then Ray’s voice popped up. 

“That’s nothing, Schwetje nearly called artillery on our own position. Luckily, someone else had some brains and stopped it before he could kill us all.” 

The laughter tapers off as the truck comes to a stop. Brad opens his eyes and from his angle he can see a blown-out bridge. _Our stop then_. He glances down to Ray and nods his head to the opening. Ray sighs with an exaggerated fall of his shoulders and say melodramatically to the rest of the men in the truck, “Well, end of the line, boys, I’ll see you in the green pastures of the Lord's garden.” 

“I highly doubt you’re going anywhere but the fiery pits below Ray.” Brad says as he stands, nodding to Sergeant Lipton as he passes him. 

“At least it’ll be warm there.” Ray laughs, taking the cigarette Luz offers him – it’s almost like looking in fun-house mirror, with how similar they look – as he shuffles out of the truck. Ray has to jump where Brad can just step and Brad smirks at him for it. 

Now that he’s out of the truck, he can see the path ahead of them, and sighs internally. _It can never be easy_. The bridge in front of them is broken in half, collapsed at the middle into the river below, whose waters are dark and slow-moving. Only one building remains standing on the opposite bank – the rest have been raised to the ground – but its roofs have been stripped to the bare beams, the windows are shattered, and the front doors has been kicked in. 

“We’re diverting six miles to the next bridge.” 

Brad and Ray turn to the Captain. Ray mirrors the man’s soft smile but says, “Sorry sir, but we don’t have the time for that.” 

The Captain nods, “Very well, best of luck men.” 

They nod and the Captain returns to the convoy. Ray fields some shouts of good luck and other comments from the gallery in the back of the truck. Brad focuses on how they’re going to cross the river, preferably without taking a dip in the river because in April after a cold winter, the water promises to be frigid. The last thing they need, is to be soaked head to toe with how ever many miles it is to the 2nd Devons. 

“Ray.” 

“Yeah, yeah I’m coming.” 

“It’s _your_ brother Ray.” Brad flicks his eyes over and takes in Ray’s twisted mouth. 

Ray steps up to him and pokes a finger into his chest. “You don’t think I know that.” he says with a level voice, but his eyes give away the bruised nerve. Brad nods, holding Ray’s eyes until he steps past him. 

Ray goes first, stepping sideways down the sloped bridge. The gap between both sections is about six feet. Brad’s mind is still working when Ray throws his rifle strap over his head and lifts himself up onto the bridge’s wide steel railings. He watches Ray stand carefully to his full high and step one foot in front of the other, down towards the gap, like he's walking a tightrope. Brad follows, needing more time to hoist himself up and get his balance: his feet aren’t as small as Ray’s nor is his balance as finely tuned. Each step makes the metal groan under their combined weight and Brad wonders if the bridge has slipped to hit the bottom of the river or if it’s hanging by its joining to the dock. One poses a bigger risk to them than the other. 

Ray is getting ready to jump from the one railing to other when the first bullet hits the water next to them. They both duck and Brad's eyes flick to the only standing house. Ray jumps across the gap as the second shot hits the water, closer. Brad is a sitting duck, balanced on a steel beam in the middle of a river but the next shot doesn’t come towards him. Instead, Brad’s breathing catches as he hears Ray swears and watches him tips over behind the railings, his legs dipping into the water before he pulls himself up. 

Brad can’t make his tongue move, can’t ask _Ray, are you hit?_ But Ray keeps shuffling along, hiding behind the railings to be less of a target. Brad jumps to follow him; another bullet splashing into the water just in front of where he landed. _Pathetic shot, even Wright would have hit me by now_. He slips behind the railings and follows Ray towards the stone lip below the dock. Another bullet pings off the metal unnervingly close to Ray’s face, spitting sparks onto Ray’s shoulder. The next hits the metal over Brad’s hand. 

Ray slips down from the bridge and slumps back against the wall, his hand pressing his side with a grimace. Brad slips down just as a bullet pings against the metal by his left ear. The sparks burn the edge of his ear. 

“Fucking hell, how bad a shot is that guy?” Ray whispers across to him with a half-failing smirk, his hand still pressed against his side. Brad nods his head to it and Ray grimaces, “Clip me, but I think I’m good.” 

“Let me see.” Brad ignores Ray’s mumble of ‘mother hen’ and unbuttons the bottom of Ray’s tunic, pulling his shirt out of his trousers. The wound on his side is shallow and long – a graze, no bullet – so it’s superficial at best. Brad reaches into his inside pocket for his spare gauze. Ray takes one look at the white fabric and moans, “I think that’s a little overboard.” 

“Sepsis and death from a tiny wound like that would be an embarrassment to the British Expeditionary Forces.” 

Ray snorts and holds his shirt up for Brad to weave the bandage between his braces and around his thinning waist, his skin pulling tight over his ribs. Brad smooths his hand over the small section of shrapnel scars further around Ray’s side as he tucks the bandage in. Ray tenses for a second but Brad quickly moves on to tucking Ray’s shirt back into his trousers. Ray slaps his hand away and Brad raises an eyebrow but lets him do it. 

“So, plan of action?” Ray asks as he plunges his hand unnecessarily deep into his trousers, with a poorly hidden smirk. 

“Lay down covering fire, I don’t want you making that any worse, and I’ll take out the sniper.” 

Ray raises an eyebrow, “Care to explain how you’re going to do that, and what you’re going to do if there're more than one soldier in that house?” 

Brad smirks, “No.” 

“Oh fuck off, ya prick.” Ray replies, his Brummie accent thickening to point that Brad’s eye twitches. Ray smirks back and Brad knows he did that on purpose. _Give me patience_ , Brad thinks, not for the first tine, as Ray makes a shooing motion with his hand. Brad rolls his eyes and slips his rifle strap over his head to hold it in his hand. 

He checks how many bullets he has in his magazine – nine and one in the chamber – and creeps under the fallen section of the bridge. He signals to Ray and two rifle shot echo around the riverbanks. He uses the distraction to pass the first set of steps up to ground level. The sniper won’t have moved position: he has the advantage, he knows the area better than them, and he might have some friends. Brad waits for a sniper shot to follow and for Ray to fire back, before slipping up the second set of stairs to sprint over to the building. He presses his back against the outer wall and waits. Ray’s tin hat peaks over the edge of the stairs and a shot chips the stone. Ray ducks down before reappearing and firing two more shots. 

The sniper doesn’t answer back. 

Brad takes the corner and carefully pushes through the broken doors, that creak harshly in silence. There’s little he can do about that now, so he advances through the darkened hallway and to the base of the stairs. He rotates his body – his rifle – around as he takes one step at a time. The stairs are silence beneath his feet. He pauses after two flights and crouches. The door straight in front of him – slightly open with two panes of glass at the top – by his calculation, leads to the room with the best vantage point to cover the bridge. He eases up the last flight, keeping his breath deep and even. No other shots have been exchanged, so it’s possible Ray has _actually_ hit the sniper, but Brad has to check. 

He slips across the landing to press his back to the wall beside the door and hits the butt of his rifle against it, throwing it open. A shot hits above the stairs through the open door and Brad swings into the opening and pulls the trigger. 

The sniper’s head snaps back, and his rifle drops onto his lap. 

Brad stares at the hole in the middle of the body's forehead before huffing as he notices the wound on the German’s right shoulder. _Not bad Ray_. 

He searches the German and takes a couple of cigarettes and a canteen, leaving the tin of dogmeat and the small picture of a girl with her hair is some sort of updo, like his sister wore before she married. He clears the rest of the top floor, but the sniper is the only soul in the building. The question of why itches at his mind but it isn’t their mission to clear the area of Germans. 

He descends the stairs and out of the front door. Ray is sitting on the edge of the side of the stairs, waiting for him with a lit cigarette between his lips. He smiles when he sees Brad and stands, taking the cigarette out of his mouth to breath a small cloud of smoke. 

“Here.” Brad throws Ray the cigarette packet and Ray catches at it, his smile turning into a grin as he shakes the packet at Brad. 

“You’re funding my habit homes.” 

Brad grins, “It keeps you quiet, at least long enough for me to bury the urge to snap your neck.” 

Ray laughs, taking a drag, “I love it when you sweet talk me.” 

Brad grins and waits for Ray to crush his cigarette under his boot before they set off into the ruins of Ecoust. Brad glances to the graveyard on their left, the iron railings still standing though they’re bent every which way, but any gravestones have been crushed by under a pile of debris from the surrounding house. Ahead of them the level of destruction seems to change, instead of completely levelled buildings, corner structures and small sections of wall remain. One impressive arch still stands though the rest of the building is a pile of sand coloured rock. 

“So, how many are you thinking?” 

Brad shrugs, “A dozen or so.” 

“Is that including the sniper you killed or not?” 

Brad turns his head, “We killed, you hit him in his shooting arm.” Ray’s eyebrows jump up and his jaw drops. Brad grins, “Close your mouth Ray, I don’t want to see your fucked-up teeth.” 

Ray’s eyebrows drop down and his mouth moves to retaliate when the sound of bullet echos around them. They both whip their head in its direction but another bullet sparks off the iron railings and Ray breaks off in a sprint. _What the fuck are you doing?_ Brad wants to ask but he has no choice but to follow Ray. As his boot beat on the dust covers ground, Brad decides that Ray made the right call: there’s no telling just how many Germans remain in the town, and they can’t fight them all, especially with Ray’s side and his hand.

The path ahead is straight - it must have been a road - and Ray follows it along. They can’t stay on it however: they’ll be easy to pick off, but Brad can’t shout, not in English. Ray somehow hears him and diverts around the corner of standing building. Brad gets there seconds later and presses himself against the wall next to Ray, who pants lightly and presses a hand to his side. He shakes his head when he straightens up and he meets Brad’s eyes. 

“Where now?” Brad asks quietly. 

“We need to go south east so that way,” Ray points in front of them to the left, “but don’t go straight, right?” 

“You’re finally learning, three years into the fucking war.” 

Ray laughs and shoves Brad’s shoulder. They slip down a side road – the town has quietened but Brad knows whoever saw them will be searching, and every soldier in hearing range will be on alert. They reach an opening to a wider street so Brad moves out and checks the left side. _Clear_. Ray taps his shoulder and Brad follows him on his left shoulder as they advance through the street towards a large arch. Ray crosses the street to covered walkway and comes to a stop. 

“Holy shit.” 

Brad hums, the building across from them is still standing, towering over the square with a large arching front door and big Victorian windows. Brad’s eyes are sweeping over the hall when they catch on a figure walking out from the shadow it casts. 

“Ray.” Brad pulls his rifle up and fires two shots, edging back behind the arched walkway, “Go!” 

The figure raises a gun and takes a shot at them, but it goes wide. Brad spins on his toes and runs after Ray: there’s no telling how many Germans are around the square. Ray sprints straight, taking them back in the direction they came from. Brad follows, keeping directly behind him. The German shouts from behind them but his shots still go wide. _Who trains these idiots?_

Ray suddenly stops and kicks out a foot at a building. A section of wood swings under his boots and Ray drops to the ground, slipping through the opening. Brad slides down on his knees and slips through seconds after him – awkwardly because there’s more of him - and falls into the small basement. The wood swings back into place and Brad watches the German’s boots travel past them through the small gaps between panels. 

“Fuck me.” Ray says, leaning against the far wall. 

“Not right now Ray, we’re busy.” Brad quips, turning to smirk at him. Ray rolls his eyes but smirks back. Brad steps towards a doorway covered in cloth, stifling a chuckle as Ray mutters under his breath, “Wish we were _getting_ busy.” 

Brad pushes the cloth to one side with his rifle, his eyes taking their time to adjust to the lack of light, though there’s a small fire burning in front of them. _Someone’s home_. 

He turns to his left and spies a woman, shaking where she stands in the far corner with her hand up. 

_“There’s nothing here. There’s nothing here for you, please.”_ He never enjoyed French in school, but it’s invaluable now. He nods and lowers his rifle, smacking a hand against Ray’s arm. 

_“English.”_ Brad replies, the word feeling awkward on his tongue. 

“Ask her if this is Ecoust.” Ray says. The woman’s head twitches which Brad thinks is an answer, but he asks all the same. 

_“Is this town Ecoust?”_ He can’t be sure if he said it right, but the woman understands and nods. 

_“Where are the others?”_ Brad doesn’t know how to answer so he shakes his head slowly. 

“Ask her about Croisilles Wood.” 

Brad raises an eyebrow, “We have a _map_ , Ray.” 

“It’s called cross referencing homes; I’d thought you’d know that since you’re from bloody Oxford.” 

“Just because I live in the town, doesn’t mean I went to the school Ray.” Brad sighs pointedly, because they’ve had this argument a thousand times and because he’s not a damn telephone, _“Croisilles, where is it?”_ he translates. 

_“The river… it goes there.”_

Brad nods in thanks and turns to Ray, who grabs his arm and shoves him towards a wooden chair. Brad raises an eyebrow, but Ray ignores him, stuffing his hand into a pocket of his tunic and pulling out another roll of gauze. Brad lifts his hand obediently, letting Ray’s nimble fingers strip the blood sodden gauze from his hand. He winces – once because the gauze has stuck to his palm – and Ray’s thumb trails a line across the sensitive part of his wrist. 

In the corner of his eye, the woman steps hesitantly out of the shadows, but Brad keeps his eyes on Ray, who kneels between his knees with a look of concentration as he carefully unwraps the rest of Brad’s hand. Brad offers him the German canteen and Ray lifts it up to smell before pouring over the wound. It isn’t bleeding anymore – only the part where the gauze stuck and it’s sluggish at best – so Ray wraps it carefully. As Ray works, Brad's eyes flick to where the woman walks behind the chair towards the right near corner. When Ray is satisfied, he presses his lips once to the bandage and once to the inside of his wrist 

“I’ll be very upset if you can’t touch my cock because you’ve lost a hand.” Ray teases. 

Brad opens his mouth to remind him he isn’t the only one with a wound, when there’s a gargle. Their eyebrows both jump up and their heads whip to the side. They watch the woman stop by an open drawer and bend down at the hip to lift… a baby out of it. The woman lifts it over her shoulder and rubs its back as it murmurs to itself. 

_“My little petite.”_

“A girl.” Brad answers before Ray can ask. 

Ray nods slowly, before standing up from his knees in a trance and wandering over to the pair. Brad raises an eyebrow as the woman tucks her skirt behind her knees and kneels on the makeshift bed on the floor, Ray kneeling in front of her just as carefully. The woman lifts the baby off her shoulder and sets it in her lap; it squirms in her hold and gargles some more, its greyed dress moving with the kick of its legs. Ray’s hand bridges the gap and brushes one of the baby’s tiny hands gently with a finger. The baby grips it, sticking its other hand in its mouth. Ray doesn’t quite coo, but he does smile softly and shakes their joined hands, much to the baby’s delight. 

“Hello little miss, might I enquire your name?” 

Brad would snort if it weren’t for the impossibly soft look on Ray’s face. He’s only ever seen it in the privacy of French boarding houses, behind locked doors. 

Ray’s eyes flick to the woman, who responds in phrase they both know. _I don’t know_. Ray asks after the mother, and the answer is the same. Ray swallows thickly as he nods. Brad isn’t surprised: with the town like it is, it’s a miracle the baby survived at all. And he isn’t unfamiliar with what it’s like to not have his birth mother, though he supposes it would hit closer to home for Ray: it’s all he’s got, a mother. _And a brother_ , Brad’s mind reminds him. 

It brings back unpleasant memories but also other, better ones too. The baby could almost resemble Emma as young as he can remember her. He’d been around eight when his sister was born, so he remembers holding her and promising to protect her. 

“We have food.” Ray says, breaking the solemn silence as he slips his pack off with a small wince. If it were anyone else, Ray wouldn’t offer free food: they know the feeling of true hunger and try to avoid it at all costs. He places the tins of food they have onto the bed, fast enough that Brad knows he’s doing it to try and take back control. He pauses suddenly and Brad sees him light up from the inside as he turns to him. “Your canteen, it’s got milk in it.” 

As soon as Ray says it, Brad kicks himself for not thinking of it soon. He stands and hands it to Ray, kneeling so that he doesn’t tower as much. Ray gestures to the woman and she hands him the baby, which he takes like a natural. He leans it into the crux of his arm and slowly brings the edge of the canteen to the baby’s lips. Brad finds himself leaning in as Ray carefully wets the baby’s lips before letting it have a bit more than a drop. He can see now that the baby’s eyes are a dark brown, much like Ray’s own. _She could be his daughter, with eyes like those_. 

The thought lodges in his throat. 

The baby has had its fill after a minute or so, so Ray puts the canteen with the pile of food and gives the baby back to the woman, who lifts it onto her shoulder. Ray starts to rub its back with the soft smile still on his lips. A bell tongs in the background and the delicate silence they’d inhabited shatters. 

Ray blinks suddenly, shaking his head and looking to Brad, who sees not Corporal Ray Person of twenty years, but Lance Corporal Joshua Person of eighteen years that July. 

“We have to go.” Ray says, smoothing the baby’s hair down before quickly pulling away and slipping his pack on. 

Brad nods and stands, but the woman protests, _“Stay, stay. Please.”_

_“I’m sorry, we can’t,”_ is all Brad knows how to say. 

Ray heads through the other door, not looking back once but lifting a hand to wipe at his face, to wipe his eyes. Brad nods to the woman and follows Ray up the stairs to the front door of the building that leads out to the alleyway they’d ran down a lifetime ago. 

Brad takes the left side of the doorway and checks that the German from before hasn’t lingered before stepping into the alleyway. There’s a clear view of the large hall at the square through some of the rubble in front of them. Ray taps his shoulder and advances up the alley, in the opposite direction that they came from. The house next to one they came out of is in ruins as is the one on the other side, but the house directly in front of them is still standing. Brad can’t work out the pattern between the buildings that survive and those that don’t. 

Ray pauses before the main crossroads and takes a right down a narrower road. The outer walls of the buildings on the left are still standing but the buildings on the right are almost levelled. They make it past one building when a figure stumbles into the street. 

Brad grabs Ray by the arm and drags him into the gap between the two buildings, pushing his back against the wall and barring an arm across his chest. The sound of coughing and retching fills the silence and Brad grimaces as he hears the German throw up in perfect detail. Ray waggles his eyebrows at him – the last time Brad shoved Ray up against a wall like this it had been under very different circumstance – and Brad rolls his eyes at him. 

“Not the time Ray.” Brad whispers. 

“What can I say, you speaking French does things to me.” Ray whispers back with a grin, but he twists out from under him dutifully. There’s an opening next to them, into the building so Ray steps through and Brad follows on his left shoulder. 

Just as Brad steps out from the wall and into the large warehouse, a German steps forward next to him, focused on his fly. Their eyes meet but Brad is faster, covering the German’s mouth before he can scream. He pushes him back against a column and presses his finger to his lips. The German looks younger than Ray, barely an adult at all. Maybe that’s way he doesn’t slit the boy’s throat with his knife, because he’s frozen and staring at him in clear fear. 

“Shhh.” Brad hisses and when he nods with a raised eyebrow, the boy nods back. He slowly moves his hand from the boy’s mouth, keeping their eyes locked as he does. 

The boy breathes for a second before he cries, “Englander!” Brad growls and grabs the boy by the neck, taking him to the ground. The boy squirms in his hold, but Brad wrestles him around until he has the boy’s back against his chest and his arm around his throat. Ray stays behind the column, his rifle at the ready. Brad sees the German from the street stumble through an opening in the wall and nods to Ray. Ray nods back and swings out from behind the column with his rifle raised. Brad looks up to the ceiling as he snaps the boy’s neck in one smooth motion. 

The boy goes limp on top of him and three shots echo through the warehouse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Choose Your Own Ending:
> 
> Chapter 2: Happy Ending  
> Chapter 3: Angst Ending (Major Character Death)


	2. Happy Ending

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to the Happy Ending!
> 
> Featuring: cuddling, sneaking, a leisurely swim in a river, and a wholesome reunion.

_The boy goes limp on top of him and three shots echo through the warehouse._

Brad pushes the German’s body onto the floor and sits up. 

“Are you done rolling around with the Boche or do you need five minutes?” Ray asks with a grin, offering his hand out. 

Brad huffs and grabs it, letting Ray pull him up. He straightens his tin hat and shoulders his rifle, “At least I did something useful.” 

“Hey! I shot the other Boche.” Ray replies, waving his hand to the opposite side of the warehouse. Brad hums and approaches the body. A bullet wound resides in the centre of its forehead, another in its chest. Brad smirks and tilts his head to side in acknowledgement. Ray rolls his eyes and steps out onto the street. 

The daylight is fading so they set off at a jogging pace: anyone in the vicinity could have heard the gunshots and start closing in on them. They make it down a third of the street before Brad spots a German turning the corner at the top of the street. He grabs Ray by the scuff of his collar and yanks him through the open front door of a standing house. Brad pushes Ray towards the close corner and presses a finger to his lips. Ray nods and tucks himself into the corner, crouching with rifle in his hands. Brad presses in next to him as best as he can, adjusting his hold on his rifle. Voices drift through the doorway, two Germans – talking calmly and conversationally – unaware of the two British soldiers on the other side of the wall. Neither one passes the open door and their voices taper off soon afterwards. 

“Shit.” Ray mutters. Brad turns to him and takes in the hand Ray has pressed to his side. “Must’ve pull it, hurt like a son of bitch.” 

“You would know.” Brad says, helping Ray stand and ushering him towards the stairs. It’s a job to get him up the stairs, but they manage it with little noise, only the creaks of old wood and small gasps from Ray. 

The upstairs is as barren as the downstairs had been and there’s little to no roof, but enough standing walls that they should remain unseen. Brad helps Ray onto the floor, leaning him against a wall and siting next to him. He knocks Ray’s hand away from his side and starts unbuttoning his tunic. 

“Buy me dinner first homes.” Ray says, waggling his eyebrows. 

“You’re cheaper than a French whore Ray, I could give you a tin of bully beef and you’d bend over.” 

“A piece of proper bread and jam at the least, I have some standards.” Ray protests as Brad undoes his trouser fly to untuck his shirt properly. The gauze has a red spot over the wound, so Brad carefully peels it away from Ray’s skin, pressing his fingers to the flesh around where it sticks. Ray winces occasionally but doesn’t flinch away. Brad rotates the gauze around: they don’t have much left and he doesn’t know how far from 2nd Devons they are or what they’ll encounter between here and there. He looks up when Ray starts moving, reaching into his tunic pocket and unfolding the map. Brad huffs as Ray spreads it over his head. He smacks the back of his hand against Ray’s sternum. 

“So, we know for sure that Croisilles Wood is about mile down this river.” Ray pokes the top of Brad's head and traces the river along. Brad jerks his head back to knock the map off. “I reckon we’ll make it by morning.” 

“We need to lay low for at least some of the night.” Brad points out. It’s not quite night yet but if they’re bumping into Germans in the daylight, he doesn’t like their chances in the darkness. 

Ray’s face closes off, “But we need to deliver the message as soon as possible.” 

“Ray,” Brad sighs, “I know this means a lot to you, and I know _you know_ that it does to me, but we need to think carefully. We’ve almost died more times than I’m comfortable with, we’re both injured, and you’re running on little to no sleep or food.” 

Ray clams up because he knows Brad’s right and sulks in silence as Brad finishes wrapping his wound again. Brad sighs and slips his pack off, reaching in to find the small pack of biscuits and tin of bully beef he has stored away. He pierces the lid of the tin first – it doesn’t hiss so the meat inside wouldn’t kill them instantly – and cuts it out with his bayonet until he can scoop the meat onto the biscuits. He edges closer to Ray, leaning his back against the wall beside him and silently offers him a meat-covered biscuit. 

“I’m not bending over.” Brad grins and it grows wider when Ray grins back. He gets crumbles all over himself and meat grease smeared down his chin; Brad snorts and throws his handkerchief at him. 

They watch the sky move through a kaleidoscope of colours as the sunlight disappear inch by inch – yellows, oranges, reds, blues, purples – and be replaced by thick darkness, until Brad can barely see Ray beside him. With little cloud cover, the temperature quickly drops, and Brad hears Ray’s clothes rustle as he curls into himself. 

“So, is anything else I should know about Nate?” 

He can feel Ray’s raised eyebrow, “Why do you want to know?” 

Brad shrugs, “He’s your family, I was under the impression you got along with them.” 

Ray sighs heavily in the darkness. “I do. He's clever, brave, shit at dealing with his emotions - even worse than you - and he can irritate the hell out of me, but I love him.” 

“However…” 

Ray rolls his eyes, Brad can tell, “However, he’s still the first-born son, of a respectable gentleman that left this world too soon, and while he might not see it, me being born second from the loins of some factory rat _did_ have an effect on me and how I see him sometimes.” 

“He gets it easy?” 

Ray snorts, “Shit's handed to him on a plate, not a sliver one mind you, but it’s still a plate.” 

Brad nods, “I used to think the same about Emma – she was their true first-born – until I realised, she was still a girl, so she doesn't have it that much better than me.” Ray snorts faintly and Brad hides a smirk, “Get some sleep, Ray.” Ray hums, removes his tin hat, and flops his head into Brad’s lap. Brad snorts but buries his hand into Ray’s hair, the strands greasy, tangled and slightly crusted with mud. He rubs through it until the mud is broken up and there are no knots. Ray’s asleep by then and Brad relaxes into the wall, letting his eyes drift closed. 

* * *

Brad snaps awake as a flare screams into the sky, bursting somewhere high above them where the roof should be. He looks away from it and listens as it fizzes, arcing across the sky above them – casting moving shadows on every wall – until it fizzles out somewhere off to their right. Another replaces it less than ten seconds later. Under the light, Brad checks his watch. _Quarter to five, dawn is in less than three hours. Shit._ Brad isn’t looking forward to what Ray’s going to say. He nudges him awake anyway because they need as much time as possible. 

“Ray, get up.” 

“Hmmm.” Ray groans, nuzzling his face into Brad’s thigh. 

“Ray, up.” Brad flicks Ray’s temple. He would just push Ray off, but the movement might pull at his graze and make it bleed again. Instead, he helps Ray sit up by lifting his shoulder and pushing on the centre of his back. 

“What time is it?” Ray asks, rubbing his eyes with the palm of his hands. 

“Quarter to five.” Brad says, deliberately level. 

Ray still jerks and snaps to the side. Another flare has been sent up, washing Ray’s in light and shadow, making his expression starker and angrier. Brad doesn’t say anything: there isn’t anything he _can_ say to make this situation better, so he just passes Ray his tin hat and puts his own on. Ray jumps to his feet, throwing his rifle over his shoulder haphazardly and heading for the stairs. Brad follows in silence, wincing slightly as Ray races down the stairs, making them creak ominously in the silence. The shadows from the house shrink away from the street with the shadows opposite chasing them, as the light arcs directly over the house. 

At least Ray has the common sense to wait for the street to be completely swallowed by shadows before he darts out of the front door. Brad makes after him, pushing his pace to keep up as Ray sprints straight down the street, ducking behind a collapsed section as another flare is sent up. Brad makes it behind the section just as the light starts to hit him. 

Ray doesn’t look his way, staunchly looking out to the street as they wait for the flare to dim. Brad reaches out and squeezes the junction of Ray’s neck and shoulder lightly. Ray turns, displacing his hand, and sighs. He gives Brad a look – _I know it’s not your fault you thick wanker_ – and Brad relaxes a little sheepishly. The flare sweeps over their heads and Brad watches the changing light as it sweeps over Ray’s face. Ray notices him watching and pulls a ridiculous face. Brad snorts and grins in the fading light. 

As soon as the light dims enough, they move, running to the T junction ahead of them. Ray skids to a halt, overshooting the end of the building and ending up in the middle of the street as another flare shoots up into the sky. 

In the light, Brad sees the German as clear as day. 

“Englander!” 

“Shit!” Ray takes off to the left and Brad follows half a second later. They’re evenly matched when it comes to speed, especially if the distance is longer: Ray’s strides are shorter than Brad’s, but he has a smaller overall weight. 

A bullet pings off a metal bracket and another shout echoes behind them. Brad curses in his head: the German is going to alert others to their presence and they can’t fight a whole goddamn town of them. 

“Ray?!” Brad shouts, because he has no idea where they’re going, or where the river they need is. 

“Just follow me!” 

Ray suddenly pitches right at a crossroads. They make it a short way down the street when two more Germans in long trench coats, emerge out of a side street, their rifles over their shoulders. _Unprepared_. Ray propels straight through them, shoving one over and unbalancing the other. Brad makes sure to shove him completely over when he barges past them. They pass a collapsed section where warm light from some sort of fire floods in. Brad glances to his side and his eyes widen at the sight of the hall engulfed in flames. 

Ray turns abruptly down another side street and Brad does his best to keep up as he twists through several sharp turns - _light on his feet_ , Brad thinks with a smirk - until they come out into a more open area, the empty husk of the town giving way to a long, stone bridge. Dawn is breaking, the dark blue sky turning lighter along the horizon. Ray dodges around the wretch of a motor car that blocks the bridge. A bullet ricochets off it as Brad passes and more shouting echoes behind them. 

Brad sees Ray jump up the side of the bridge, but it doesn’t quite register what he’s doing until he’s disappearing over the side towards the river. He wants to shout at Ray, wants to stop and think because they have no idea how deep the water is, but he can’t. Instead, he trusts in Ray and jumps after him. 

The ice-cold water swallows him whole, rushing over his head. He can't see and the weight of his pack weighs him down. He fights to the surface, gulping in breaths as he wrestles with thick straps over his shoulders: the pack is useless if it kills him. It takes longer than he’d like to free himself – he ends up swallowing several mouthfuls of water as it churns around him – but once he’s free of the weight he can float. 

He holds his breath as he sees more white crests ahead – no sign of Ray in between them. The current plunging him down a short lip straight into a set of small waves. He gasps for air and searches for Ray when he can – between unceremonious dips under the surface – and spreads his arm out as far as he can to balance himself on his back. His neck begins to ache immediately as he keeps glancing downstream for Ray, but he’s rewarded when he spots Ray bobbing a couple of feet ahead of him. 

A rock juts out of the surface ahead of them, directly in their path. Brad fights the current to get closer to Ray: if he hits that rock, it could crack his skull open. He twists in the water, grabs Ray by the scuff of his collar, and drags him into his chest. An eddy drags them towards the rock before throwing them out to the side. They barely avoid it. 

Brad realises – too late – that the water is disappearing ahead of them, where the trees are smaller than they are on the banks. Brad tightens his grip on Ray, and they both take a deep breath as the water carries them over the waterfall and into the plunge pool below. The force pushes them to the bottom, and he can’t tell which way is up as they’re rolled around by the under current. The strength of the water nearly rips Ray from his grip, but his fingers are curled too tightly into his tunic. His chest is squeezed tight, emptying more every second, but they fight for all their worth to find the surface. Brad breaches first and drags Ray up next to him, who gasps for air but doesn’t flail. 

The current dies down and the white crests disappear into a smoother surface, so Brad tips them onto their backs. He waits, controlling his breathing until it’s regular. 

“Ray?” 

“I’m good homes.” Ray pants. 

They float for a while and when the blood stops rushing in his ears, he notices the white petals drifting down from the sky like snow. 

“So, what cherry trees are these from?” Brad asks, tipping upright. Ray snorts, staying on his back, though he does lift a finger to examine the blossom that clings to it. Brad surveys their surroundings. The sky is getting lighter but there’s little sign of sunlight yet and the banks are filled with vivid grass and tall, thin trees in full leaf. Ahead of them is a large tree trunk floating in the river, with a mound of something pressed against it. 

It’s only as Brad swims closer that he releases they're bodies. A pile of swollen, grey bodies in both British and German uniforms. 

He turns away from them and heads for the left bank, swimming harder to fight the weight of his sodden uniform. The bank is cover in grass and loose soil instead of thick mud, making it easier to pull himself out. He turns back and offers his hand out to Ray as he swims – clumsily as most Midlanders do – to the bank. Ray grasps it and Brad pulls him onto the bank. He surveys the damage – they’ve lost their packs, tin hats, rifles and – as Ray slips a water-logged map out of his pocket, all the ink spreading into a black mess – a map. 

“Wonderful.” Brad says dryly. 

Ray shrugs, refolding it and putting it back into his pocket, “We know the way from here, south east, that way.” Ray points into the wood behind them. Brad sighs and heaves himself up, trudging in the pointed direction. Dawn hasn’t broken yet – that much he can tell from the sky – which means the 2nd Devons haven’t begun their push. They don’t know that for a fact, however, so Brad sets a faster pace. 

The wood around them – Croisilles hopefully – is thick with thin trees in full leaf, some are cherry trees, shocks of white amongst the greens and browns. Several are fallen, most likely due to enemy artillery. The only sound for a while is the rustle of trees – no birds, they’ve already fled the wood along with everything else that has the sense. He and Ray share an amused look. 

In front of them, amongst the trees, they spot a horde of seated soldiers, enough men to make up a company by Brad’s estimates. _2nd Devons_. If they don’t identity themselves, they’ll get shot by those on watch. Why they haven’t already been spotted in the dawning light is concerning. 

“Are you the 2nd Devons?” Ray shouts from behind a tree. 

The men closest to them jump and scramble for their rifles before the words register and they stop to stare at them with widen eyes. Someone with half a brain shouts back, “Yes!" 

Brad nods and together they step out from behind their trees with their hands in clear view. All it takes is a jumpy private like Trombley to let off a shot and they’ll be mincemeat. Brad knows that for a fact. No one is reckless or stupid enough however so they stride towards the companies dugouts. 

“We’re looking for Colonel Ferrando.” Ray cuts in before the sergeant of the first dugout can ask any stupid questions. 

“Who are you?” 

Ray sighs dramatically, “Corporals Colbert and Person from the 8th, we have direct orders for the Colonel.” 

The sergeant nods, “He’s down the line, in a cabin cover.” 

Ray nods jerkily and sets off, throwing a thanks over his shoulder. They weave through the company’s dugouts, gaining more and more strange looks as they go. Ray seems unbothered, striding with his chin up as though they aren’t half starved, drenched head to foot, and missing most of their equipment. He’s seeing a different side of Ray, the determined, unrelenting, protective side that he gets glimpses of when he faces a complex wire problem or when they go over the top or when he curls over Wright’s head during an artillery barrage after the idiot loses his helmet for the sixteenth time. He’s man enough to admit he’s a little in awe of the man Ray is becoming. 

The sun is climbing higher in the sky and Brad can see more by the minute, white lines of trenches that cut through bright green grass. Some men are starting to move in them - not unlike rats - so the orders for the first wave must have been sent out. 

Ray looks over his shoulder to Brad and Brad nods, both of them picking up the pace as they descend into the lines. These trenches aren’t swimming in mud like their ones because they’ve dug into chalk and the wooden floorboards have yet to rot in torrents of rain. Most of the men at this end are stationary, trying to glean as much sleep as possible before their assault, so they move through the lines with little trouble. It feels too easy after all they've encountered on this mission, to simple wander through a set of trenches. Still, Brad won’t count their minimal blessings until they’re in his hand. Ray seems to be of the same opinion: he isn’t taking the relative safety as an opportunity to slow down. 

They weave through the men seated on the ground and past several stretchers leant against a side, continuing until they hit the front. The white chalk walls slope instead of having ladders to allow an easier path over the top. At least someone has sense here. The sergeant hadn’t said exactly where the colonel's cabin cover was, but Ray seems to be acting on the assumption that it’s deep within the lines. Brad spots a lance corporal standing in the middle of the path and he pauses in front of him, 

“Where is the Colonel?” he asks when Ray twists to stare at him. 

The man jumps, “Up the line, that way.” 

Brad resists the urge to roll his eyes at the man’s stuttering; Ray does not. Brad walks side by side with Ray now, ready to temper the energy he can feel building in Ray: if they’re going to get this Colonel – that not doubt believes he is right – to listen, they need to be professional, not twitching like a jack rabbit. 

“Calm down Ray.” 

“You calm down.” Ray bites back, giving Brad an incredulous look. Brad tilts his head: it probably wasn’t the best way to approach this. Brad is suddenly hit with a thought and he turns to Ray. 

“The envelope…” is all he has to say before Ray’s eyes widen and he reaches for his sodden breast pocket. A thick feeling grips Brad’s stomach as Ray carefully opens the wet envelope and unfolds the letter. 

Ray sighs, “It’s still legible.” And Brad relaxes. 

The bend they’re on seems to be never-ending and now they’re beginning to pass more men who are taking their positions on the slope, laying on their sides in the dusty chalk. Brad goes to check his watch before realising it’s water-logged and useless. He’ll have to wait for leave to see if he can mend it, he won’t try and take it apart where any mud might tarnish it further. Up ahead of them is a small bunker made of sandbags. The cabin cover. 

Ray’s eyes skip over to him and Brad does his top button up, that must have come undone during their brief swim. Ray takes the hint and does his up as they approach two sentries posted outside. One is around Trombley’s age, with baby fat in his cheeks and wide eyes. The other is older than them, cutting a sharp figure. 

“We have a message for Colonel Ferrando from General Mattis.” Ray informs them. 

“Hang on now.” The older sentry says before disappearing into the bunker. Brad looks to Ray and takes in Ray’s rim-rod straight back, boots together at the heel, arms by his side, the perfect stance of soldier. Brad mirrors it though not without a pointed look. _Why aren’t you like this more often?_ which is replied to by an arched eyebrow and a mischievous twinkle, _it’s no fun_.

“Colonel Ferrando will see you.” The sentry says as he reappears. Ray takes point, striding into the bunker with a calm, controlled air. Brad follows. Colonel Ferrando is waiting for them, holding court of the large table in front of him. He looks to be around Captain Patterson’s age, with white blond hair hidden under his tin hat and keen, deep-set eyes. His officer’s uniform is immaculate all the way down to the boots, that don’t have even a flick of mud on them. 

“Who are you?” Ferrando rasps and the light catches on his throat enough for Brad to see the visible scarring. Brad stands up straight at the same time as Ray salutes sharply. 

“Corporals Colbert and Person from the 8th Devons, sir.” Ray says, with perfect diction, snapping back to attention. Brad has to suppress a smirk: Ray has clearly seen the man’s uniform and correctly – as Ferrando’s face shows – deducted that Ferrando is man who likes _culture_ as it were. Ray holds the envelope out and Colonel Ferrando takes from his hand, unfolding it. Brad watches his eyes scan the piece of paper back and forth and the twist of his mouth deepens before he passes the envelope to the Major beside him. 

“It appears gentleman, that we do not have the enemy on the run as first thought. Stand the men down.” Ferrando orders. The Major next to him nods and walks past Brad out of the cabin cover. He was right before: this is too easy. Ferrando should be putting up a fight, rallying his causes to justify his move. Then again, it’s most likely that Ferrando doesn’t care either way, attack or not. _Boot licker._

Ferrando glances back to them and looks them up and down. He wonders what the Colonel must see in their sullied uniforms. Hard work or sloppiness. “Corporals, Ferrando’s men will patch you up. Dismissed.” 

Brad wants to raise his eyebrow and worries that Ray _has_ , but he pivots around before they – Ray – can earn them disciplinary action. They walk out the cabin in time and pass the sentries. Ray pauses however, and Brad sees the Major standing next to the cabin. Their eyes meet and Ray asks, 

“Sir, would you know where we might find Lieutenant Fick?” 

“Knowing Fick, he’s with his men at the front. That way.” The Major points to their right, the opposite direction from where they came. 

Ray nods curtly and they break off in that direction. They pass a T junction and carry on straight towards another section of the front. The men here have taken similar positions to the soldiers in the other section, some laying on the slope, others curled against the far wall out of the way of the path. Brad watches Ray’s head move from side to side as he searches for his brother. Brad lets his attention wander a little because he isn’t going to be able to pick Ray’s brother out of a mass of men. Instead he reflects on the mission; it’s been a success – an anti-climatic one but those, he finds, are the best ones. Now Ray gets the chance to see his brother, having been apart for at least a year because they haven’t had leave back to England since before the beginning of the Somme in July – even when they were both injured, neither of them were bad enough to be send home. 

Brad refocuses on the path and spots a soldier walking up the line, conversing with the men around him as he goes. Ray’s head stops moving around and stays facing forward as he starts running. Brad stays behind and watches with amusement as Ray throws himself into the man, tackling him to the ground. The soldiers around them jerk to raise their rifles – protective of their Lieutenant then – but the sound of joyful laughter fills the air and the two of them scuffle on the floor, wrestling like young boys. 

Brad draws nearer and openly grins at the sight. Ray has dislodged his brother’s tin hat and is trying hook an arm around Fick’s neck. Brad’s genuinely impressed that he’s holding his ground as well as he is: even Brad struggles when Ray gets him to the ground. 

“Person, I know you’re an inbred cretin but at least have some dignity.” 

Ray laughs, bright and unhindered, and Nate takes the opportunity to tussle Ray’s hair and shove him over. Brad gets his first good look at him then, blond hair ruffled but not anywhere near Ray’s rat nest, green eyes filled with mirth, and untanned skin. At first glance, Ray was complete correct: they look nothing alike, but when Nate’s mouth cracks into a wide grin framed by rosy cheeks, it mirrors Ray’s almost exactly, the only things missing are dimples and slightly crooked teeth. 

The men around them have lowered their rifles but look on with surprise. _Not every day they see their commanding officer laughing and participating in horseplay_. 

Nate seems to notice as one particular soldier steps forward, a gunnery sergeant that looks older than all of them. Nate waves him off, “It’s okay Gunny, this is my brother Ray.” The look of pride in Nate’s face when he says _my brother_ immediately tells Brad that he thinks the world of Ray. _Interesting_. 

“Well, I’d get out the dirt before anyone important sees.” The gunny says with some amusement. 

Nate nods quickly and rights himself, standing up with little hesitation. Brad holds back from offering his hand to Ray as Nate offers his, pulling Ray to his feet. Nate bends to retrieve his tin hat as Ray grins at Brad, tussling his own hair as if it’s going to tame anything. He looks his twenty years when he’s happy, the lines around his mouth and eyes are carved out of joy instead of weariness. 

Nate clears his throat, “Gentlemen, if you follow me, you can explain why _exactly_ you’re here.” 

“Why can’t you swear like a normal person?” Ray moans. 

“Because I’m an officer Ray.” 

Brad hangs back as the brothers walk side by side in front of him. He takes the time to observe them; Nate is taller by a good three inches, but their builds are similar. There’s an obvious difference in both their state of uniforms and rank but Nate’s isn’t the spotless image of most officers here with mud and chalk dust cover his boots, trousers, and some of his tunic. The Major had said ‘Knowing Fick’… Brad smirks to himself, _an officer that sits with his men in the mud, how about that_. 

They divert away from the line down a side trench. There are still men coming down the pipeline, but they’ll be called off soon enough. Nate stops in a small cubby hole, just wide enough for them to fit. Nate drags Ray in a firm embrace then, wrapping his arms around him and leaning his head against Ray’s. He draws away a second later and cup Ray’s jaw to assess at the shrapnel scars on his cheek. Ray tenses but Nate’s hold seems gentle and considerate. 

“These aren’t half as bad as you described.” Nate says with disapproving look. 

Ray shuffles his feet and flushes so Brad answers for him, “Ray can have a lively imagination.” 

Nate jumps slightly like he’d forgotten Brad was there. Brad saves him the trouble and introduces himself, “Corporal Brad Colbert.” 

“Brad.” Nate repeats. “ _Brad_?” he says, turning to Ray with a slight smirk. 

Ray grumbles, shoving Nate’s hands away, before sighing, “Brad.” 

“I’m glad we’ve established my name.” Brad says sarcastically. He catches Ray’s eye and asks what the fuck that was about. Ray huffs a laugh and waves to Nate, 

“He knows about…” Ray waves his hand around. Brad nods slowly and turns to Nate. Ray smacks his arm, “Put the Iceman glare away homes, he won’t say anything.” 

“I won’t.” Nate agrees, look at Brad with an earnest gaze. Brad nods again and they side-step the issue as Nate asks, “Why are you here?” 

“We were delivering a message to the Colonel from General Mattis, the attack's been called off.” 

Nate’s eyes widen, “Called off, why?” 

“It’s a German trap.” Brad explains. Nate’s gaze turns unfocused for a second before he nods. 

“I can’t say I’m surprised.” Nate sighs and looks them up and down, “You need to have some food and get some rest, get that hand looked at.” 

Ray groans, “Annddd he’s back. For once, can people trust me to look after myself without clucking and fussing like a bunch of mother hens.” 

“No.” Brad and Nate say in agreement. Ray groans again, pushing past them into the main walkway. Brad meets Nate’s eyes over his head and nods pointedly. Nate nods back. 

“I have to report to my men but come and find me before you go.” Nate calls to them. Ray flicks him a thumbs up and Brad grabs him before he can walk backwards into the oncoming men. 

Ray starts humming under his breath as they start towards a set of tents on the higher ground behind the lines. Brad tries to work out if it’s one of those ridiculous harvesting songs that Ray insists are good for morale. It’s only when Ray begins with the words – loudly – that Brad recognises the marching song. 

_Pack up your troubles in your old kitbag  
And smile, smile, smile,  
While you've a lucifer to light your fag,  
Smile, boys, that's the style.  
_

Brad chuckles, as the men around them groan, and someone yells at Ray to shut his hole. In the distant, he hears a sharp bark of laughter. Ray looks to him, his grin bright under the dirt and exhaustion that covers his face and Brad finds himself singing along just as loudly. 

_What's the use of worrying?  
It never was worthwhile,  
So, pack up your troubles in your old kitbag.  
And smile, smile, smile.  
_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed the happy ending, whether you skipped the angst or needed something to cheer you up.


	3. Angst Ending

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> PLEASE READ!!
> 
> You're about to read the angst ending, this ending includes MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH.
> 
> If you don't want to read that, go back to Chapter 2 for the Happy Ending.

_The boy goes limp on top of him and three shots echo through the warehouse._

Brad shoves the German’s body onto the floor and sits up just as Ray staggers back, a hand pressed to his stomach. “If you keep messing with it, you’re only going to make it worse.” Brad says as he steps towards him. 

Ray’s head raises slowly, and his eyes are wide. Brad pauses, tilts his head, and looks down to Ray’s hand as it moves away from his stomach. There’s a small pool of red in his palm, red beads dripping off his fingers and thick rivets running down his wrist. 

“Brad…” Ray’s voice is quiet and shaky, his bottom lip wobbling as he breathes. He starts to tilt sideways, and Brad jumps forward, catching him and lowering him to the ground. He fumbles with the slippery buttons on Ray’s tunic to pry it open and press the last of his gauze to where blood is seeping through bullet shaped hole. It's spreading quickly, seeping through the fabric until the whole area of Ray's stomach is dark red. Ray winces, squirming under Brad's hand. 

“Keep still Ray.” Brad orders, pressing down harder. 

“ _Fuck_ , you bastard it hurts.” Ray chokes out between gasps, his hands hovering above Brad's. 

“Don’t be a girl Ray.” Brad hisses. The gauze squelches under his hand, sodden and useless in under a minute, covering Brad’s hand in dark blood. He tosses it away and bunches up Ray's shirt to use instead. He can feel the blood pulsing under his hand, running out from under the shirt. He presses down harder, one hand on top of the other, the blood sliding between his fingers. There are two small pool growing next to both of Ray’s hip. 

“Brad,” Ray says, tugging at his sleeve, “Brad, leave it.” 

“No!” Brad hisses. His cheeks feel flushed and his hands blur in front of him, swirling pinks and reds and browns. 

“ _Please_.” Ray whispers and Brad looks up from his hands, from the blood – fuck there’s too _much_ – to meet Ray’s eyes. He’s ashen, even under the grim and the tan he picked up that first summer, the scars on his cheek dark in contrast, “Please, Brad, leave it.” 

“ _'can’t_.” Brad mumbles as his throat closes up. 

Ray cracks a weak grin, “Stubborn fucker, I’ll be having word with that mother of yours, you’ve got the worst attitude I swear.” Brad snorts. Ray swallows, “Brad, it’s dark, that means-“ 

“I know what it means.” Brad snaps, turning back to his hands, pressing down as hard as he can. 

Ray winces, kicking his legs, “Brad, Brad stop, stop!” he sobs. 

Brad flinches, yanking his hand away and Ray sighs, his legs relaxing against the floor. A hand brushes his and Brad looks up, blinking to clear his vision. “It’s okay.” Ray says slowly, the side of his mouth tilting up. Brad reaches out to cup the back of Ray’s head, accidentally smearing blood on Ray’s neck. He doesn’t seem to mind, leaning into it. _I never could get you to keep clean._

“Get up here.” 

Brad goes, untying Ray’s pack and arranging him so that his back rests against his chest between spread legs. He takes his and Ray’s tin hats off: it’s easier to see each other then. Ray grabs his hand and pulls it around his waist, slotting their fingers together. Brad can almost pretend they’re back in Paris, propped up against a headboard with a room to themselves and a whole night to waste. 

“I’m so fuckin’ pissed you know that.” Ray laughs, choking somewhere in the middle, “I survive the bloody Somme to get killed by some blitzed Boche.” 

“Ray.” 

Ray shuffles in Brad’s arms so that he can look up at him. Brad looks away and blinks: he can’t be weak, not now, not when Ray is– 

“Hey, look at me, please Brad, look at me.” 

“I didn’t even know you knew the word ‘please’” 

Ray snorts, winces, “I’m full of surprises me.” Brad rolls his eyes to the ceiling at that stupid _fucking_ accent. “You know the way, don’t you?” 

“Follow the river downstream to Croisilles Wood, find the 2nd Devons, deliver the message and then find your brother, blond and green-eyed, nothing like you.” 

Ray nods, squeezing their hands. He swallows thickly, “Be easy with him yeah, he’s not- he likes to act like he'd not bothered by stuff, but he is. Plus, he’s an officer, he needs a little coddling. And, um, and tell him I’m sorry, for being a shit brother.” Brad pulls Ray closer, smoothing a hand over his hair; it's never been tamed in all the time Brad’s known him. “I love you; you know that.” 

Brad chokes, _I love you too_. 

Ray shushes him, “I know, you don’t have to say it. I _know_ homes.” Brad can’t bear to look into Ray’s eyes but forces himself to. He’s glad he does, because they’re bright and he can memorise that shade of brown, like trees in the summer. He cups Ray's jaw with his free hand, leaning down to kiss him - for the first time in months - softly and chastely like he would if he were courting him, because he _is_. Ray sighs into it and presses his hand to the back of Brad's head, his fingers snaking through the short hairs. Brad pulls away slowly and slides his free hand into the one Ray's has on his shoulder. Ray closes his eyes and Brad closes his, pressing their forehead together. 

He stays like that, holding Ray tight, even as Ray's fingers slacken between his and his arm starts to drop. He bites at his lip hard enough to break the skin and squeezes his eyes shut. He waits, letting the tears slide down his face because when he gets up, he’s going to have to _leave_ Ray here, with the fucking Boche, in a town they didn’t know existed until this morning. Brad buries his face into Ray’s hair and wants to scream until he’s hoarse. He can’t though, because the damn Boche would hear him and he has sixteen hundred men to save, one of them Ray’s brother. 

_But you didn’t care about them, did you?_

Brad presses his lips to Ray’s brow before pulling away. His hand finds the yellow envelop, the corner stained red and the map that’s now unreadable, soaked to the bone, in Ray's pocket. He removes the envelope and slips Ray’s identity disc from around his neck. He pauses for a second when his fingers find the single pearl that hangs along with his disc, before taking that too, putting them all into the tin case that sits in his breast pocket. 

He stares at the warehouse wall as he slips his tin hat back on and slides an arm under Ray’s knees, picking him with no difficulty at all. He walks – cradling Ray against his chest – to the end of the warehouse and lays him on the floor. Brad does his tunic and collar buttons up, smoothing his hair into a bit more order before setting his tin hat over his face. When Brad stands and looks down, he can pretend that Ray’s asleep, napping in a quiet moment before they need to start marching. He pauses again when his eyes catch on the small knife on Ray’s belt. He takes that too. 

The Boche soldier lays dead on the floor some way away, a bullet wound in the centre of his forehead. Brad smirks weakly and steps out onto the street. 

The daylight is fading so he sets off at a jogging pace: anyone in the vicinity could have heard the – the gunshots. He continues down the side street and turns into the next corner. It’s his own fault when he knocks into a Boche soldier. 

He reacts first, pushing the soldier over and sprinting away down the turn. He hears the soldier shout something and a bullet pings off a set of bricks to his left. The alley is long and curved, bracketed by half-standing brick wall and debris. His boots pound against the ground as he opens up his stride to try and put some distance between him and the Boche following him. 

A wall stands several yards in front of him – too high to climb quickly and not be a sitting target – so he has to turn right around a standing building. _I can’t run forever_. He stops just around the corner – in front of a small set of stairs – and waits. The soldiers footsteps get louder as he scuffs against thin layer of dust on the ground so Brad presses into the wall and waits. 

The German swings around the corner and Brad jumps forward, slamming him into the brick wall. Unlike the first one, this one is older and bigger, so he stays on his feet even as Brad knees him in the stomach and swings him back into the wall. A lucky fist catches Brad in the jaw and he stumbles back, the floor spinning underneath him. The German’s next swing knocks his tin hat off but misses his face. Brad seizes the opening, grabbing him by the shoulders and punching him across the face. The soldier stays on his feet and through a mistake gets his hand around the front of Brad’s neck. Brad fumbles, trying to break the others hold on him but he trips backwards and falls down the stairs, taking the German with him. He hits his head against the ground and his vision blurs, black creeping around the edges. He can't break the German's grip so he drops his hand to his belt and finds Ray’s knife. 

The German gasps above him as Brad forces the knife into the side of the soldier’s throat, blood spurting out of the artery there. He throws the German off of him and takes great pleasure in stabbing him again, this time in the stomach, right where a bullet hole would have been. The Boche gags, blood welling out of his mouth, his hands and legs scrambling against the ground. Brad steps over him and staggers out into a half-collapsed house. His vision gets worse, the black edges creeping further in until he can’t tell which way is up. He finds a wall and slides down it until he hits the ground. 

_I’m sorry, Ray._

* * *

Brad comes back to consciousness slowly, blinking as he tries to make out his surroundings in the darkness. Gingerly, he presses his hand against the back of his head to where it throbs – he’s lost his tin hat somewhere – and he feels the wetness of blood. He swallows thickly and shakes his head, pushing the memories of warm, pumping blood underneath his palms away. 

He pushes off the wall and onto his feet, finding his rifle by his side but no sign of his tin hat. The building is a husk, bare of everything but brick walls, and even those aren’t all there. He stumbles through a hole in one wall and out into an alleyway, that’s illuminated by orange light. _Something's burning_. He walks towards the light and comes to a crossroads, where he has an uninterrupted view of a building on fire. Flames lick up high into the dark sky and it hurts to watch, but he can’t look away. It must be the hall at the square, no other building had stood that tall in the flattened town. 

He turns back the way he came because south east was to the left of the hall, he remembers Ray pointing it out. He takes a deep breath and pushes forward as his chest aches. He takes a right at the bottom of the alleyway – on the left there's a familiar body and set of stairs, though Brad can’t quite remember why they're familiar – into a wider section. He walks carefully: the ground seems to pitch and yaw underneath him like a boat. At the end of the section, there is another crossroads, so he carries on straight ahead. He hears the sound of low voices – foreign, German – and presses against the wall next to him. Slowing his breathing and holding still, Brad waits for them to passes with his rifle in his hand. Two of them emerge out of a side street, in long trench coats, their rifles over their shoulders. _Unprepared_. They exchange a cigarette and one of them pauses by the opposite wall to piss. Brad takes the opportunity to slip pass them as they're engrossed in their discussion. 

He keeps his head down as he walks along wall – he would be more suspicious trying to edge down the street instead of walking normally – and it pays off for the most part until he hears a shout in German from behind him. He pretends not to hear them but at the same time he passes a collapsed section where the light from the burning hall floods in. 

“Englander!” 

Brad starts running as soon as the word registers – he can’t fight a whole town of German, not on his– and turns abruptly down another side street and several more until he comes out into a more open area, the empty husk of the town giving way to a long, stone bridge. Dawn is breaking, the dark blue sky turning lighter along the horizon. The wretch of a motor car blocks his way and a bullet ricochets off it, followed by more shouting. Brad sees the river to his right. _Follow the river downstream_. 

He jumps onto the stone side and off the bridge into the waiting water. 

It swallows him whole, ice-cold water rushing over his head and the weight of his pack weighs him down. He fights to the surface, gulping in breaths as he wrestles the thick straps over shoulders: the pack is useless if it kills him and he has everything important in his tunic. It takes longer than he’d like to free himself – he ends up swallowing several mouthfuls of water as it churns around him – but once he’s free of the weight it’s easier to float on his back. There’s no use in swimming because the current is pulling him in every direction with more energy than he has to fight it, so he focuses on keeping his head above the frigid water. 

He holds his breath as he sees more white crests ahead, the current plunging him down a short lip straight into a set of small waves. He gasps for air when he can – between unceremonious dips under the surface – and spreads his arm out to balance himself on his back. His neck begins to ache immediately as he keeps glancing downstream to what awaits him. Another lip comes and goes, choking him on water when he mistimes his breaths. 

A rock juts out of the surface ahead of him, directly in his path. He twists in the water and drags himself to the left as best he can. He barely avoid the rock when an eddy drags him towards it before throwing him out to the side. 

He realises – too late – that the water is disappearing ahead of him, where the trees are smaller than they are on the banks. He takes a deep breath as the water carries him over the waterfall and into the plunge pool below. The strength of the water pushes him to the bottom, and he can't tell which way is up as he’s rolled around by the under current. His chest is squeezed tight, emptying more every second. The surface meets him a second too late; he chokes and coughs up the water until his throat is raw, the sky spinning above him. 

Then, the current suddenly stops trying to drag him under and the white crests disappear into a smoother surface, allowing to him float slowly on his back. He waits, controlling his breathing until it's regular. It’s when his focus returns that he notices the white petals float beside him. _Look like Lambert's though they could be Dukes_. 

He sits up in the water and surveys his surroundings. The sky is getting lighter, some sunlight breaching the trees, and the banks are filled with vivid grass and tall, thin trees in spring leaf. Ahead of him is a large tree trunk floating in the river, with a mound of something pressed against it. 

It’s only as Brad swims closer that he recognises them as bodies. A pile of swollen, grey bodies in both British and German uniforms. 

He turns away from them and heads the left bank, swimming harder to fight the weight of his sodden uniform. The bank is cover in grass and loose soil instead of thick mud, making it easier to pull himself out. He stays on his knees for a minute, trying to brush the water out of his eyes and orientate himself. The French woman has said to follow the river downstream which he’s coming to understand is as useful piece of information as ‘you’ll be home for Christmas’. _Ah, but they didn’t say which year, homes_. He has no details on exactly how far downstream, of important milestones along the route, or even which bloody side of the river. He takes a deep breath and pushes himself onto his feet. Dawn has already broken – that much he can tell from the daylight and a glance to his watch, though it wasn’t made for water so it's down right useless now – which means the 2nd Devons may have already begun their push. H doesn’t know that for a fact, so he stumbles forward: he’s not going to fail, not again. 

The wood around him – Croisilles hopefully – is thick with thin tree in full leaf; some are cherry trees, shocks of white amongst the greens and browns. Several are fallen, most likely due to enemy artillery. The only sound for a while is the rustle of trees – no birds, they’ve already fled the forest along with everything else that has the sense – until he hears faint singing. One voice that he can only just here as he nears a horde of soldiers seated in the middle of the forest. 

_I know dark clouds will gather 'round me,  
I know my way is rough and steep,  
But golden fields lie just before me,  
Where God's redeemed shall ever sleep._

There are enough men to make up a company by Brad’s estimates, and the colours on their shoulders are red and green, instead of the purple on 8th’s uniforms. He staggers towards them and no one shouts in alarm, which is concerning, but Brad has little in him to care. 

_I’m going home to see my mother,  
And all my loved ones who've gone on.  
I'm only going over Jordan,  
I'm only going over home._

He finds a thin tree and leans against it as the soldier continues to sing in a high, clear voice. It’s strange to listen to someone sing purposely well, instead of at the top of their lungs, completely out of tune. _Hey, my singing is great, me ma told me so_. He shakes the thought away and focuses on the words. 

_I am a poor wayfarin' stranger,  
I'm travellin' through this world of war,  
Yet there's no sickness, toil, nor danger,  
In that bright land to which I go._  


_I'm going there to see my Father,  
I'm going there, no more to roam.  
I'm only going over Jordan,  
I'm only going over home._

Too optimistic for Brad’s taste but the tone is good, not too irritating though obviously untrained. The singer's voice fades, and the silence stretches on until it's broken by a short round of applause and thr mass sound of soldiers standing, their packs and rifle rattling. Brad stands up straight and gets a few strange looks before someone bothers to ask him, “Are you alright pal?”, in a soft Devonshire accent. 

“I’m looking for the 2nd Devons.” 

The small group of men around him look between each other and a ginger one answers, “We’re the 2nd Devons, D Company.” 

“Where’s Colonel Ferrando?” Brad asks curtly. 

“Down the line,” the soldier responds, throwing a thumb over his shoulder. Brad looks up and spots the line of men now forming towards where the trenches must start. He pushes off the tree, brushing past the soldier. His head throbs at him as he walks into the rising sunlight, the brightness blinding him for a second. He pushes through the ache and past several soldiers to get a glimpse at what awaits him. White chalk lines break the solid green of the field where the trenches have been dug into it, the excess lining the tops, making them painfully visible. German artillery won’t have a job finding them. 

He descends into the trenches, not bothering to duck to compensate for his height, focusing instead on pushing his way through the lines of soldiers making their way deep into the chalk trenches. His reputation hasn’t spread this far, so no soldier moves aside at the sight of him. Most are facing to opposite direction and don’t see him coming so he has to push against their arms to get in front of them. His wet uniform is awkward to move in but no more than when it was mud sodden, at least the river water doesn’t smell as bad as mud mixed with rotten flesh and blood. 

He turns to his hands at the thought, and all the dried blood that’d covered them like thick mud has been washed away, apart from where it has seeped into the bandage around his palm and clings to the creases between his fingers. 

He pushes past several more men, trudging deeper into the trenches. Around him, men rush to form groups around their COs, who shout their orders. _They’re getting ready to go over_. Brad picks up the pace, pushing and weaving his way through the throngs of men advancing down the line towards the main front. 

“Where is your commanding officer?” he asks a man handing out ammunition. 

“In the hanging pen.” The man responds, pointing ahead of Brad. 

Brad nods and pushes through a group forming around another Lieutenant. He takes a good look, but the man has black hair not blond. He passes a set of stretches propped up against the trench walls, waiting for patients, and ignores an indignant shout from behind him. Then he finds himself on the front, men laying on the gentle slope up to the surface, others curled as close to the wall as they can. He starts jogging in the less crowded space between the two set of men, though he staggers a little as his head protests and sends dark spots in front of his eyes, half blinding him. 

“You will advance on the first whistle blast.” A gunnery sergeant shouts behind him. 

A lance corporal is standing in the middle of the path and Brad pauses in front of him, “Where is the Colonel?” 

The man jumps, stutters – more when Brad glares because he doesn’t have _time_ for idiots – and replies, “Up the line, that way.” 

Brad makes it a few more feet further – the trench must form an arc as the bend seems never-ending – when a shell goes off to his left, up on the high ridge behind the line. It spews rocks and dust over him, that sticks to still-wet uniform and fills his nose; he has the sense to keep his mouth shut unlike some of the men. That is only the first: another shell hits somewhere behind him, close enough that the force makes him stumble forward. More soil rains down on him as shells explode in the distance, in both directions. The men huddled to the side of the trench flatten themselves even closer to the wall and the ground. The sight brings back memories of the winter just past and Brad shakes them off, cursing in his head. 

It doesn’t help when he's thrown to the side by a shell hitting too close to his right flank. He scrabbles along the slope, a sharp pulse going up his wrist as he plants his hands down to push himself up. _Plain undignified_. He fails to keep his mouth shut this time – a miss timed gasp – and dust coats his tongue. He spits onto the ground and propels himself forward, following behind a group of men. 

“One minute!” a Lieutenant shouts. 

Brad grabs him by the shoulders, “Where is Colonel Ferrando?” he demands. 

The Lieutenant blinks at him, before responding, “He’s in a cabin cover, three hundred yards ahead, but you’ll have to wait for the first wave to leave.” 

Brad ignores him – he doesn’t have to do anything but this – and watches as shells light up the path ahead, kicking up dust to create a thick white-blue fog. _Over the top then_. He doesn’t hesitate, climbing up the slope onto the green field above. The Lieutenant shouts at him from behind but it’s lost in the blast of a shell to their left. 

Brad starts to sprint as soon as he’s upright, his boots pounding as fast as he can move them. He doesn’t bother to make himself smaller, either he’ll make it now, or he won’t. His ears ring and he can hear his own heartbeat thumping against his chest, a cold wind rippling through his damp uniform as a roar starts from the line and men descend onto in the battlefield. Many of them have the sense to run around him but a few insist on getting in his way; he’s thrown to the ground by one particularly overzealous soldier. He curses at him and pushes himself up, moving to the right as a shell goes off close enough to shower soil and white-blue dust over him. More shells hit the land in front of him, blowing some men over and ripping others apart; limbs fly in the air and Brad sees red wisps appear from men that soon fall to the ground. 

He slides back into the trench some three hundred yards up the line, getting chalk up his side and on his face. He lands on his feet at the bottom of the slope and pushes on, weaving through a short column of men towards the bunker built out of sandbags. His vision decides to blur then as another round of white-blue fogs obscures the way. 

“I have a message for Colonel Ferrando from General Mattis.” Brad informs the sentries as he walks purposefully towards the doorway. An idiot could have guessed that the Colonel would be behind a wall of protection as his men charge over the top. _It’s not your place to question it Ray_. 

“Hang on now.” One of sentries says when Brad doesn’t stop, and he puts himself in Brad’s way. Brad pauses and stares at the man. _Even the Devil would freeze under the Iceman’s glare_. The man – boy, he’s barely Trombley’s age – gulps and looks to the other, older man who nods him through. He turns the corner and says as forcefully as he does when privates aren’t following instructions, 

“Colonel Ferrando, this attack is to be stopped, on the orders of General Mattis.” 

Colonel Ferrando turns, holding court of the large table in front of him. He looks to be about Captain Patterson’s age, with white blond hair hidden under his tin hat and keen, deep-set eyes. His officer’s uniform is immaculate all the way down to the boots, that don’t have even a flick of mud on them. Brad should feel less than, but he finds he doesn’t care. He has something between his ears after all. 

“Who are you?” Ferrando rasps and the light catches on his throat enough for Brad to see the visible scarring. Brad stands up straight and salutes him with slightly less reluctance. 

“Corporal Colbert of the 8th Devons, sir.” Brad grits out, snapping back to attention before reaching into his pocket to remove the yellow envelope from his tin case, not sparing the rest of its content a glance. He holds it out and Colonel Ferrando takes from his hand, ripping it open. Brad watches his eyes scan the piece of paper back and forth and the twist of his mouth deepens before he passes the envelope to the Major beside him. 

“It appears gentleman, that we do not, have the enemy on the run as first thought. Stand the second wave down.” Ferrando orders. The Major next to him nods and walks past Brad out of the cabin cover. It suddenly feels too easy. Ferrando should be putting up a fight, rallying his causes to justify why they had to come here, why Ray had to… Brad grits his teeth and stands straighter: it’s most likely that Ferrando doesn’t care either way, attack or not. _Boot licker._

Ferrando glances back at him and looks him up and down. “Corporal, Ferrando’s men will patch you up. Dismissed.” 

Brad wants to raise his eyebrow, but he pivots around before he does and earns himself disciplinary action. He walks out the cabin and passes the senteries. The young one eye him warily. He pauses however, when he sees the Major standing next to the cabin. Their eyes meet and Brad finds himself asking, 

“Sir, would you know where Lieutenant Fick is?” 

The Major raises a eyebrow, “Knowing Fick, he went over the top with his men in the first wave, but you can check the casualty clearing station.” 

Brad grits his teeth and nods curtly, walking in the direction the Major gestured to, further down the line. _I can’t fail twice_. Brad follows the men carrying stretchers down to a T junction and left. He turns briefly to the men returning from the battlefield as they slide down the white slopes into the trench, some with blood covering their uniforms. He follows the stretcher bearers and the men carrying wounded on their shoulders down the side trench. It curves to the left before coming to an abrupt corner with several empty stretchers leant against the wall just before it. He moves to the side to let more stretchers pass him and tries not to stumble. He can feel the adrenaline wearing off and the pain in his hand and the rest of his body resurfaces. His hearing has cleared somewhat so he can hear the clearing tents before he sees them in front of him. 

He ascends a gradual slope into the swirling mass of soldiers milling around the tents and the beds within them. How he’s going to find Lieutenant Fick in this chaos, he doesn’t know. He starts with the middle left tent, scanning the rows of beds for a Lieutenant’s uniform. He moves onto the middle right tent. He sees wounds of all sizes in all different places as he weaves between the beds, searching each one individually, but none of the men bare the Lieutenant bars. He moves onto the lower right tent, where he pauses as a couple of medics run past him to a man screaming his head off, the lower parts of both legs missing. 

He drifts through the tent and out into the sunshine. He stops and closes his eyes to feel the heat of it as the cold wind blows through his uniform. Something inside tells him to open his eyes, so he does, and he looks to his left just as a blond man in an officers uniform look his way. 

“Lieutenant Fick?” 

The officer’s eyes widen slightly, “Yes, can I help you?” 

Brad has to clear his throat as it closes up. "You were right Ray," he mutters because ignoring the obvious disparity in hair colour, Nate looks nothing like Ray: his face is rounder, his jaw less square, his nose shorter and his skin much paler. But as Brad searches Nate’s face, he can see the similarities too, their eyebrows are the same, their ears, necks, hairlines and though Nate’s eyes aren’t as round, they still have a doe- like shape. A pressure builds behind Brad’s eyes as he stares because the more he looks, the more of Ray he finds. 

“You look like you could use some medical assistance Corporal.” Fick says calmly as he takes a step forward. “If you’ve lost your company, I can help you find them.” 

“I’m with the 8th.” Brad replies. 

Nate’s officers’ façade slips as his eyes brighten and he paces closer, “The 8th, would you know my brother, Ray Person?” 

Brad smooths his features into a careful blankness, “Yes, sir. I was sent here with him.” 

Nate’s eyes somehow brighten even further, and he glances around, “Ray’s here?” 

_No, he isn’t_. It’s only three words, but like another set, he can’t get them out. Instead he reaches into his breast pocket and into his tin, removing one of the identity discs inside. He takes Ray’s knife – washed clean in the river water – off his belt. He remembers last Christmas, when Ray’d ripped the brown paper off and gawked at the thing in its leather sheath, turning it over and over in his hand before pulling the blade out and waving at Brad, _‘I’m gonna kill me some Boche with this’_ he’d said. _‘Not if you stab yourself with it first.’_ Brad had quipped back. 

He grits his teeth tightly and holds the items out to Nate, who stares at them. 

A dull sort of pain burrows into his chest as he watches the realisation dawning on Nate’s face. His eyes dull and his jaw sets, but not enough to stop the slight quiver in his bottom lip. He swallows and takes the knife from Brad’s hand, staring at the inscribed handle. _Per tuum latus semper_ , a goddamn Latin pun. 

“It was quick.” Brad lies. _Be easy with him_. “He wasn’t alone.” Nate nods, his eyes still focused on the handle. Brad wets his lips, “He wanted to say sorry, for being a shit brother.” 

Nate chuckles thickly, “I could never get it into his head that I couldn’t have asked for a better brother.” 

“Stubborn as a mule,” Brad agrees. 

Nate looks up suddenly, his eyes searching Brad’s with an intense he’s only ever seen in Ray. Brad swallows but holds his gaze. Nate seems to find what he’s looking for and says, 

“You’re Brad, aren’t you?” Brad nods slowly. 

Nate’s smile is watery but earnest, “Ray mentioned you a lot.” Brad reads Nate’s tone, understanding the message between the words and nods again. Nate bites at his lip, his hand curling around the knife handle, “Did you… care about him?” 

“More than I thought possible.” 

Nate nods, appraising him with a different, softer look, “I’m sorry.” 

“So am I.” 

They lapse into silence, staring at each other. Nate looks away first and it exposes the wet sheen to his eyes. Nate closes them, pressing a tear out of the corner of his eye before he straightens up and pulls his officers’ façade back on. It doesn’t really work, not with his glass bottle green eyes telegraphing his emotions the way they do. Ray had been the same. 

“Get some food and have yourself looked at.” Nate pauses, licking his lips, “And I’d like to talk with you before you return to the 8th? It’s only… I haven’t seen… letters don’t contain the important things.” 

“Yessir.” Brad says. Nate nods distantly, gazing to his left. Brad sets back and turns away, giving the Lieutenant the privacy to grieve, if only for a couple of minutes. He spies a tree a short way away from the camp so he walks over to it. His legs are beginning to shake underneath him, so he doesn’t so much sit behind the tree as slump against it and fall to the ground. 

His hand shakes slightly as he reaches for his tin case and pulls it out into his lap. It used to be a light blue, but over time and mud and blood, it’s been scratched and weathered, more blue-grey than blue. He pries it open and takes out the first thing his hand touches, Ray’s other identity disc. He traces the carved words on the steel, _J R Person, M, 8th Devon, 10102_. He smirks as he retraces the J – _Joshua_ – he can picture Ray’s grimace. He puts back and lifts the single pearl out of the box, rolling it between his fingers. It’s barely the size of a musket ball, but he can remember the grin on Ray’s face when he showed it him, fresh out of the sea at Soar Mill Cove. _Gonna give it to some local girl for a quick courting?_ he’d asked. Brad puts it to the side of the box to carefully slide a short piece of card out from the bottom of the tin. Printed on it is a photography of two of them, in rolled shirt sleeves and braces, sitting on a patch of grass with wide grins. Some army photographer had captured it on leave – long enough ago that Ray’s face is clear of any blemish other than spots – and sent them both a copy for their families. It’s then, staring at Ray’s grinning face that tears start to prick his eyes. He flips the card over, just quick enough that the first droplet doesn’t hit the photography. Scrawled on the back, in Ray’s chicken scratch, 

_If you are not long, I will wait for you all my life._

“Bloody Oscar Wilde.” Brad mutters. He chokes on a sob, putting the photograph back in tin case before he can get more tears on it. He closes his eyes tightly, rubbing his face furiously until it’s dry. 

A light breeze drifts past his face and he breathes in the smell of grass and wildflowers. The tree he’s leaning against is even less comfortable than the one this morning and he’s sodden with re-drying mud and river water, that’ll keep him damp and cold for another day, no matter how close spring is. He can’t hear Ray’s soft breathing beside him, even and shallow in sleep. He swallows and waits for the sound of boots on grass to fill his ears, for him this time. 

And only him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for this, if it's any consolation there is a happy ending. 
> 
> Choose Your Own Ending:
> 
> Chapter 2: Happy Ending  
> Chapter 3: Angst Ending (Major Character Death)

**Author's Note:**

> Choose Your Own Ending:
> 
> Chapter 2: Happy Ending   
> Chapter 3: Angst Ending (Major Character Death)


End file.
